


touch (scintillas)

by FaultyParagon



Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [24]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Angst, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Choking, Clover Ebi-centric, Cuddling & Snuggling, Every Kind of Spice, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gags, Intimacy, M/M, Nipple Play, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Simp!Clover, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sounding, Stripping, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Qrow Branwen, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, adoration, fair game, i've avoided saying anatomical parts for the entire story, it is not representative of the rest of my work, it's kind of nuts, starts off gentle and somft as i am wont to do, stg most of my content is super wholesome it's just this one monstrosity, there are no inappropriate words in this entire fic, this whole fic escalated way beyond the meme it began as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 39,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Qrow hasn’t felt the embrace of another in a long, long time, despite what he might lead one to believe. Clover is here to change that.-aka Qrow is touch-starved and Clover is ready to give everything he has to fix that. Fair Game, V7.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229
Comments: 444
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all know the drill- I'll just leave this here for now. Let me know if you want to see more!

Neither of them were expecting the rain before the mission. Now that it is completed and the rain has begun to mix with the dissipating, rancid smoke left behind from their prey, Qrow shrinks away from it, but Clover loves it more than anything.

It’s a rare thing to see a downpour fall upon the icy ground which covers Solitas, but much like Clover’s heart- although he’d never admit it- the air has been warmer in the days following Qrow’s arrival with his little brood of wayward children. The rain feels stinging and cold against Clover’s bared arms and face, but he does not care, for just the fact that it is not pure ice or hail or snow is a feat in itself. While he awaits the arrival of their airship now that their mission is complete, he gladly holds his arms out, grinning despite all efforts to maintain his cool demeanor; the droplets are fat, heavy, landing upon his face and bare arms with a weight and force that makes him almost giddy.

It does not rain in Solitas. Clover wants to cheer in delight.

Qrow, however, is not pleased by this turn of events. He covers his head with his blade, grimacing as Harbinger’s mechanisms become damp, but he is every bit of the Valean man he claims to be as he is unwilling to put himself back in the way of the rainfall. “What’re you so happy about?” the elder growls, looking at the sky with all the contempt of a man spurned by a lover. “It’s just some damn rain.”

Clover rolls his eyes, but he moves to stand by Qrow anyways, shielding the elder from the onslaught of the slanted rain coming in from the east. “It’s not exactly common in Solitas,” he explains gently. “Let me enjoy it- we don’t get temperatures at sea level that are warm enough to warrant rain normally.”

Qrow blinks at him for a moment, then grins, canines poking through parted lips as he takes shelter behind the taller man. “What are you, a little kid seeing snow in Vale for the first time?” He chuckles at that mental image, adding, “Don’t tell that to Ruby; she’ll get herself sick by playing in the rain if you tell her it doesn’t happen often.”

Clover has to pause, gulping as he reels himself in, fighting back the urge to run his thumb over those canines- to see if they are truly as sharp as they seem.

The airship arrives before he can act on his impulsive desire, leaving Qrow to shake his head and complain loudly as they enter the ship. Clover almost wishes he could remain upon the tundra for longer; before he can waste any time, however, he boards, planning a route in his mind through Atlas Academy to get to a rooftop where he can enjoy the rain.

 _I hope it’s not snow up at that elevation._ He just wants to feel the rain. It is so fleeting, and he does not intend to waste any of it.

When he finally snaps out of it to glance over to Qrow, he cannot contain his laughter as he snorts, watching Qrow glumly push damp strands out of his eyes. His hair refuses to stay put, falling back into Qrow’s eyes over and over again.

Before he can think twice on it, Clover beckons Qrow to sit at the edge of his seat; when the elder complies, Clover sits forward as well, sliding a kneecap between Qrow’s, reaching out and gingerly sorting out his hair. He is happy to smooth dark, grey-streaked strands out of Qrow’s eyes, taking the time to drag his fingers backwards against Qrow’s scalp, feeling smooth hair cling to his own callused hand each time he pulls back to push the hair farther.

It is a few minutes of these quiet motions, the pilot humming idly to himself in the front seat the only sound which fills the cabin, before Clover finally looks at Qrow’s face amidst these surprisingly-intimate motions; what he sees makes heat rise up throughout his body, his muscles clenching, warmth pooling in his gut as he sees red staring up at him through half-lidded eyes framed by long lashes over a straight, proud nose, puffs of steam emerging from between parted lips with every brush of Qrow’s hair.

Clover does not stop his hand, taking a moment to gauge his options. He can pretend like nothing is happening and stop there, or he can push further. After all, he is just Qrow’s combat partner, assigned by his commanding officer to the elder thanks to his Semblance. There isn’t exactly a bond which ties them together.

His luck has always been on his side, so without thinking twice, Clover raises his other hand to cup Qrow’s face, feeling a sharp jaw and stubble-lined chin brush against his bared fingertips before settling into his gloved palm. Then, he continues his ministrations, pressing against Qrow’s scalp, watching the water slowly evaporate in the chilly cabin with every brush of his fingers, burning hotter than Clover can imagine.

It is only when a tiny sigh of satisfaction escapes Qrow’s lips, vulnerable and wanton, his cheeks sinking into Clover’s waiting palm, that the elder seems to understand what has just occurred. This has never happened before. Thankfully for him, the ship is docking, and the moment the door opens, Qrow’s eyes snap back to alertness and he springs out of the ship, rushing away without a second thought.

Clover’s hands tingle, fingertips aching to continue those tender motions. He does not know what had compelled him to do that to Qrow; it almost causes him to tremble as he realizes just how deeply the man’s light aftershave has embedded itself into Clover’s mind. As he steps out of the ship, however, he is distracted by the fact that cold, but liquid, droplets hit his face from the heavens, thick clouds above still unleashing a heavy rainfall upon Atlas. A pleased grin spreads unbidden upon his lips, and he steps forward, tracing the route he had previously made in his mind to reach the balcony from which he can enjoy this rare rainfall.

As he walks, however, he runs his fingers back through his hair, pressing into his scalp with such intensity he almost trembles. His fingertips still burn from Qrow’s skin.

Idly, he wonders how he can touch Qrow again. It is just a quiet thought blossoming in the back of his mind. The heat remains, however, and he heads off to his target, pushing the case of Qrow Branwen’s longing sigh out of his mind for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a whole mood and a half, now isn't it?

There are twenty minutes until their rendezvous with the others. Clover regrets working so speedily; perhaps if he had been more careful, this wouldn’t have happened.

And yet, he is not angry at himself as he unpacks his first aid kit, realizing that he is the sole person who is around to aid Qrow. Something about the prospect makes him giddy, almost unsettlingly so. And, with clear skies stretching a vibrant blue in every direction, at least they are not suffering as they await their extraction.

It is easy to use the guise of a bandage to reach out for Qrow’s hand; after all, Centinel poison is nothing to scoff at, and although red sparks dance beautifully across the back of Qrow’s hand already, preventing the acid burn from growing and stopping the poison in its tracks, the blistering skin remains stinging and biting as his Aura resources focus on what matters; keeping Qrow alive.

All of these facts play idly in Clover’s mind, but he does not care. All he can focus upon is the way that Qrow freezes when Clover extends his own hand, palm outstretched, holding up the antibacterial gel with the other hand. Red eyes widen, flickering between Clover’s hands, his own injured one, and then dropping to the floor. Clover opens his mouth to speak, but pauses as he sees the tips of Qrow’s ears burning so pink it could match Nora’s skirt; suddenly, Clover has to sit back, taking Qrow in under a new light.

 _He’s shy,_ Clover realizes faintly. The thought lights a fire within him that he hadn’t even known was kindling; however, as he takes a moment to assess his options, he feels his fingertips tingling, the phantom sensation of Qrow’s hair sliding between his fingers, stubble nuzzling into his palm, striking him again. The heat which had pooled in his belly the day of the rains is ready to be stoked, if Qrow will let him.

He reaches out, and Qrow doesn’t pull away, simply murmuring, “It’s not that bad- just leave it.”

Clover tenderly tugs Qrow’s hand closer to him, balancing the bandages on his knee before uncapping the gel. Pulling off his glove with his teeth, Clover flexes his fingers, sighing as the cool air touches his normally leather-bound palm; he dips two fingers into the salve and, as softly as possible, begins to apply the gel across the blistering wounds on Qrow’s skin.

There is a slight hiss, a sharp inhale; Qrow’s chest rises, teeth clenching as pain strikes. Clover pauses, allowing the elder time to acclimatize himself with the sensation of the medicine before continuing, copious dollops of the salve spreading under his fingers as he carefully coats the afflicted area, the back of Qrow’s hand, with as much care as he can muster.

It is clearly enough. Qrow does not avoid his gaze due to the pain, the pink in his face and the hitching in his breath enough to tell Clover that Qrow feels the fire within Clover’s fingertips, the heat transferring between them not eased by any salve or medicine. There is no need to ease it.

With a thick layer applied, Clover puts away the gel and opens up the bandage, applying a layer of gauze underneath before wrapping above and below the injury. He wants to avoid putting pressure upon painful, angry blisters. Then, while Clover puts away the rest of his supplies, Qrow lets out a sigh of relief as the analgesic finally begins to numb the pain, leaving his Aura to clean up the damage once the poison has been neutralized in his system.

Clover does not release his hand, however. He glances at his Scroll; they have fifteen minutes at least before the rendezvous. So, he pulls Qrow’s hand into his own as he sidles closer, taking the opportunity to carefully thread Qrow’s fingers between his own, gently squeezing. With his other hand, he begins to trace the outline of Qrow’s wrist- fingertips travel up a rough, callused palm before settling into the center of it, gently massaging the heel of Qrow’s hand, relishing in the sensation of veins and tense muscle moving and shifting, melting in relaxation, under his ministrations.

They are silent, save for quiet sighs which slip out of Qrow’s lips unbidden, leaving his cheeks flushed a shade that compliments his eyes perfectly. Clover enjoys it; it is a lovely day, and based on how the colour of Qrow’s face lightens and evens out, the way red sparks eventually settle into pale skin upon a bared forearm, Clover knows that his Aura has successfully fought off the poison, that the wounds are healing. It is comforting to know that Clover was able to help, even in a small way.

When Elm and Vine, then Harriet and Marrow, arrive at the rendezvous for the airship that shall take them back to Atlas, every single one of Clover’s teammates comments on the redness of Qrow’s face, the wobble in his voice. They tease and poke fun, mocking his inability to avoid the poison spray, assuming his flustered responses to be defensiveness. They do not know of Qrow’s misfortune after all; to them, any error is due to skill, nothing more.

Clover knows better. Qrow could not have avoided the attack, and Clover regrets not being close enough to protect him. Qrow deserves peace. That is why Clover takes a seat next to Qrow upon the airship, sitting forward on the bench so his hand is hidden from the view of the others as he takes Qrow’s uninjured hand in his, administering the same gentle pressure upon that hand as he had for Qrow’s injured one. The fire in his stomach burns as he feels Qrow’s entire body stiffen beside him in shock, then relax, eventually leaning ever-so-slightly against Clover’s shoulder, lips parted. The others do not notice, do not see. Clover does, and he does not forget, does not let go, memorizing every whorl and crease in Qrow’s hands, imprinting his fingertips into the elder’s flesh.

He wants to go further.

As the others exit the ship upon their arrival, Clover finally lets go, standing up and glancing over his shoulder at Qrow. The elder is looking down at his hands. They are trembling.

Clover smiles and walks away, filing a request for a restocked first aid kit from the medical officer on duty. As he heads to the woman’s office, he wonders whether Qrow’s strong, decisive hands will grow pliant, soft, welcoming in his without the bandages in the future; he smiles at the thought. It is a beautiful day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all aboard the thirst train woot woot

They stand in the briefing room, waiting as the others file in lethargically. The sun is barely over the horizon, and no one wants to be there so early, but there is no helping it with the tasks for the day awaiting them all.

Clover pours coffee into a paper cup from the dispenser in the back, inhaling the mildly bitter scent happily, smiling as it filters through his veins and clears his head in a heartbeat. It is not the caffeine which wakes him up; it is the routine, the motion of pouring his coffee and dropping in one single cube of sugar when no one is looking to sweeten the bitter garbage which is served every morning without fail. Inevitably, his mind wanders back to his quarters, where a small drip coffee filter awaits, promising smoother, sweeter brews without all of the chalky bitterness always left from caffeine served by the gallon. He drinks the coffee in the briefing room anyways, for it is his signal to begin the day.

Qrow joins him wordlessly, also reaching for a cup. Clover smiles and grabs the top cup in the stack before Qrow can, turning the spigot and watching nearly-black liquid fill, fill, fill; he stops it, adding precisely one splash of milk and a hint of sugar before holding it out to Qrow.

Qrow’s face melts into a weary but amused smile, the elder’s sleepiness dulling the fact that Clover has memorized exactly how he takes his coffee.

Long, thin, callused digits wrap around the offered cup, settling into the spaces between Clover’s fingers. Clover shifts so that they touch, so that for this brief moment, he can feel Qrow’s warmth; it spreads through his hand, warming him from head to toe, a slight shiver down his spine soothed as the heat pools within him. He pauses as the elder takes the cup, and then Clover releases it, allowing his fingers to glide up Qrow’s exposed forearm, feeling a visceral satisfaction bloom within him as gooseflesh rises to meet his slight, tracing touch.

While he maintains his smile, Qrow’s eyes widen just a fraction. He sucks in a breath, watching Clover like a cornered animal- lip quirked up, nose crinkled, ready to snarl, weight shifting backwards as if prepared to run away.

Clover sighs, his hand dropping from Qrow’s arm. Immediately, the elder jerks backwards, the quick motion causing some of the scalding liquid to fall upon Clover’s fingers.

“Fuck- sorry, are you okay?” Qrow asks, the tension snapping instantly as concern for his younger teammate takes over.

Clover winces, but does not miss a beat, bringing the same fingers that had just run along Qrow’s arm to his lips. He pauses, then slips the mildly burned areas into his mouth, looking up at Qrow with half-lidded eyes, tasting coffee and milk upon his tongue. Normally, he wouldn’t be a fan; the sweetness of milk coffee is not for him.

Qrow, however, is, he realizes faintly; Qrow realizes it too as Clover’s lips curl into a lazy smile, savouring the taste. Qrow freezes, eyes growing wide with shock before the elder turns on his heel and rushes to take a seat just as some of the rookies walk in, carrying their sleepy, yet moony-eyed excitement with every step.

Clover has to pause and chug the rest of his coffee before the briefing begins, focusing solely upon the bitterness. The taste of Qrow upon his tongue would be too distracting, and he doesn’t want anyone else to know how sweet Qrow’s touch can be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realized it's been about a year since I joined AO3 and began crossposting works onto here. Woot woot! Y'all are a much more active community in the comments than on ffnet for me, and for that I'm grateful- your comments make my day :)

He notices the unusual pallor of Qrow’s cheeks only once they are already on the way to the Amity site; the lack of light in the back of the supply truck does not aid him in this, the sunlight reflecting off the tundra and through the windshield barely bright enough for the duo to see the faces upon the playing cards held in their hands. It is naught but a single drop of sweat rolling down Qrow’s brow that catches his eye; Clover pauses, looking over his cards to see Qrow’s lips part, a heavy, weary sigh slipping through, light steam forming in the chilly air. It takes him a moment to register that the inhale following is shaky, weak, pained.

Instantly, Clover sits up, puts down his cards, and slides the box they have been using their makeshift table back into its place, pressed against the seats up front. Qrow looks startled, perking up slightly; without warning, Clover gently takes the cards away from the elder and scoots over. His movements are careful, silent, nothing but the faintest brush of his slacks against a hard, smooth floor. He does not want to alert Penny and Ruby, the two young ones giggling and murmuring about something or the other in the front seat. He does not want them to see.

See what, he doesn’t know.

Without a word, Clover fills in the space where the box had been, reaching out. Pulling off one glove, he presses the back of his hand against his own forehead, then snaps a look at his Scroll, registering his vitals. He flips the screen over to Qrow’s vitals on their team Aura roster as he moves his hand to press against Qrow’s forehead, lifting up dark hair and comparing their heat; Qrow is much colder, clammy, his breathing rate faster than normal, although his temperature reads far higher than what is expected.

Clover sighs, leaning forward. A part of him flickers, switches on; before he speaks, he relishes in the torn look in Qrow’s eyes, halfway to embarrassment and halfway to _want_ as a pink tongue slips through Qrow’s lips in nervousness, saliva shining on pale skin for just a moment. Clover gulps, then leans back slightly, pulling his hand away. “You’re getting sick?”

Dejectedly, Qrow taps his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing against his skin. Clover almost wants to run his hands down the man’s jaw to his neck, curious about how that motion would feel against his fingertips- but almost on cue, Qrow’s eyes bug out and he opens his mouth to speak. Words do not arrive, however, as he freezes, then turns to the side, coughing into the elbow of his blazer wearily.

Ruby’s voice rings over the back of the seat. “Uncle Qrow, did you take your medicine?”

“No, ‘cause it tastes _awful!_ ” Qrow rasps back, every bit of petulant he should not be as the uncle in this exchange.

Ruby sighs in exhaustion. “Do I have to pull Dad’s tricks on you, mister?” She cannot make due on that mysterious threat, however, as she is soon distracted by an inquiry from Penny about what it feels like to cough or grow ill; Clover lets out a tiny sigh of relief, for their privacy is returned to them at last.

“Who’s parenting who, here?” Clover teases quietly, biting back his smile as he reaches into his pack. He pulls out a small peppermint drop- he always carries a few to clear his head when he’s fatigued on a mission- and unwraps it. When Qrow rolls his eyes, then looks at him questioningly, Clover smiles fully, holding up one finger against his lips to silence Qrow. He doesn’t want Ruby to know- she will clean out his whole stash if she hears the crinkling of the wrapper.

As the volume of Ruby and Penny’s conversation grows, Clover unwraps the drop as neatly as possible, tucking away the foil wrapper before it can make too much noise. Then, he opens his mouth and mimics sticking his tongue out.

Even in the darkness of the truck, Clover can see how alarm flashes across Qrow’s face, quickly dissipating into embarrassment. Still, as Clover waits patiently with peppermint drop in hand, Qrow averts his gaze and opens his mouth. The younger grins, gently dropping the soothing candy onto an awaiting tongue- he pauses there, wondering how far he can push, how far he can enter, how warm Qrow’s tongue must truly be for his temperature to be reading so high- but he does not push, merely allowing a nail to lightly brush Qrow’s lower lip before he holds out his hand a hairsbreadth away from Qrow’s cheek.

On instinct, Qrow leans in, and that familiar sensation of eternal stubble and cool skin catches Clover’s palm. Clover takes the whole thing in in the most detached manner, too absorbed in _watching_ to really allow himself to _feel_ for a moment; his eyes fall upon how dark lashes flutter at Clover’s touch, head tilting slightly like a sunflower seeks its namesake, cheek nuzzling against Clover’s palm, lips opening to let out a breathy, minty sigh that seems almost unconscious, unintentional.

Qrow is beautiful like this, Clover thinks; yearning; in Clover’s hands. Idly, he wonders what his vitals look like; they probably match Qrow’s, if the heat in his belly and the warmth in his chest is anything to go by.

And when he pulls his hand away from Qrow, there is a fleeting moment of pure betrayal on Qrow’s face, as if expecting the younger to warm his skin up forever, before he understands his own actions and withdraws in clear shame. Clover laughs, deep from his belly, as he pulls out another drop and slips it into his own mouth, savouring the taste. Now, they match. As if rehearsed, the two let out a long, slow breath, minty heat forming steam in the scant inches beneath them as the truck goes along the road to Amity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all have any prompts/scenarios that are not overtly sexual, feel free to leave them in the comments! I'm working on compiling a list of prompts to go through and turn into spice :)


	5. Chapter 5

Qrow is shifting, fidgeting- hands running along his sides, tugging at fabric, grimacing when nothing seems to work. His movements are slight, not catching the attention of the others seated in the passenger hold around him.

Clover notices. Frowns. Tapping the toe of Qrow’s shoe with his own, he asks the question silently, concern in his eyes despite the genial smile upon his face as Ruby launches into another story to the rapt audience of her teammates at Clover’s side. Qrow glances up, wry humour in every line on his face as he realizes that he has been caught, but he shakes his head, shakes it off.

Clover’s concern does not dissipate with Qrow’s dismissal; he just tucks it away, waiting for the moment the two of them are alone. It will come soon, after all, for they have a patrol to get through whilst Team RWBY take on the monsters that have been targeting the gate to the supply dock.

Once the girls have separated from the duo, Clover reaches over, a light touch on Qrow’s arm enough to startle the elder, grabbing his attention. “You alright?”

They step out onto their usual route, Qrow’s keen gaze locked onto the horizon, Clover’s eyes focused on the danger zone closer to the wall itself. “It’s nothing- watch out, they’re coming!”

Immediately, the two of them are equipped, weapons drawn, teeth bared in matching grins, for they have easily learned to match one another’s rhythms in battle and their victory is already assured as long as they have each other. Clover adores the way they dance around one another; his luck will keep him safe when Qrow’s misfortune threatens to hurt them both, instead redirecting the negative effects onto the Grimm doubly. Whenever the misfortune grows too powerful, Qrow simply transforms into a crow, the graceful creature flying through the skies and assaulting the Grimm from angles they least expect.

Clover will never get sick of seeing Qrow’s transformations. When James had told him about it after their initial introductions, it had been terrifying, mind-boggling to know this man was infused with pure _magic;_ but seeing Qrow soar through the air fills Clover with a sort of pride which he cannot name.

Soon, their attack is finished and they are safe, the monsters slain and their bodies evaporating into foul smoke. It takes a few moments back on their previous route for Qrow’s odd fidgeting to begin once again. Clover spots it instantly and laughs, enjoying the little pout of frustration upon Qrow’s lips as he tries in vain to readjust his blazer for the nth time. Clover does not know what the other man needs, but he is more than happy to holster Kingfisher upon his hip and reach out to the elder, placing his hand right below Qrow’s nape. “What’s going on?” he murmurs, pausing for a moment.

Qrow’s cheeks flush, his gaze dropping to the slip-resistant walkway under their feet. “I- it’s nothing,” he insists.

“It’s not. You’ve been antsy. Let me help.” He keeps his voice low, cool- breathing in the icy air, praying it shall nullify some of the heat in his words.

Qrow sighs, then relaxes, leaning into Clover’s touch. Clover easily runs his hands down Qrow’s back, pressing against the elder, feeling tense, sinewy muscle flex under his fingers; the moment his hand reaches directly between the man’s shoulder blades, however, Qrow stiffens, arching into Clover.

Clover pauses, mind racing, trying to figure out what it could be. There’s a knot of hard muscle there, but it’s not common to be so tense there… at least, not with human motion. “Is… is it from your wings?”

The colour which floods Qrow’s face is breathtaking. “It’s… shut up. I pulled something on a scouting trip last night.”

The image of a corvid unable to scratch an itch between its wings is the about the cutest thing Clover has thought of all week, and he cannot contain himself as laughter spills from his lips unbidden, rocking his chest from deep within. Qrow huffs and pouts, but as Clover moves behind him to massage that area, kneading a tense shoulder with one hand and a pushing the heel of his other hand against the knot between his shoulder blades, Qrow gives in, his cheeks and ears a pretty pink as he lets out quiet, barely-stifled moans of relief and pleasure that make Clover draw closer to him, hoping to catch every wanton cry.

Clover is immensely grateful that no one else is around, for the image of the leader of the Ace Ops giving an impromptu, standing back massage to the dusty old crow is enough to keep the laughter going well into the evening. While Qrow bites back against the teasing, clearly too embarrassed by it all to come up with any meaningful retorts in favour of spluttering in embarrassment, Clover appreciates the opportunity; now, Qrow is comfortable with his touch, and the next morning when they wait at the coffee dispenser in the briefing room- earlier than the others, as usual- Clover lays his hand on Qrow’s shoulder blades and allows it to sink lower until it rests against the small of Qrow’s back, and the elder doesn’t move away, leaning into the touch just like the day before.


	6. Chapter 6

Clover has spent all afternoon looking for Qrow, for they have a report to file after an incident during their latest mission. They are lucky no civilians were harmed, but the mounting tensions in Mantle have not been helped any by the sudden danger of the situation; James will not be happy to read their report, either, but they have no choice but to get it done.

His feet ache after jogging through the halls of Atlas Academy for what feels like hours, but the elder has not been picking up his Scroll. He has found Ruby and Yang and Nora and Oscar, but no one can locate the other Huntsman, leaving Clover feeling more than a little weary. By the time he decides to give up and simply return to the Ace Ops’ personal office to write the damn thing on his own (or at least, a draft of it) the sun has begun to creep lower towards the horizon and Clover’s patience is all but gone.

There are two things he notices distinctly the moment he steps into their office, however; first off, the window is open. It is a security risk to leave any openings unguarded, so he simply makes a mental note to speak to Marrow about it- it’s always Marrow who does it, after all- as he walks towards his desk, tucked into the corner at the back of the room. The second thing he notices is far more surprising than the first, though, as a large, huddled black mass of feathers and muscle sits squat upon his desk, head tucked under a wing, entire body rising and falling in time with the whirring of Clover’s constantly-running work terminal.

Clover groans silently, plodding over to his seat and pulling his chair out as quietly as possible. He frowns, taking a seat, leaning his chin upon his hands as he watches the peacefully-napping bird resting upon his desk without a care in the world. It is blocking his keyboard. He has half a mind to yell, to startle the bird into waking up- just the tiniest way to get back at Qrow after making him run around Atlas searching for him after their mission whilst the bird decided to take a nap, of all things- but when he sees the little corvid’s beak lift in its slumber, only to let out a tiny, squeaky sneeze, Clover finds that he does not have the heart to do so.

Instead, he carefully picks up the corvid and places it upon his lap, smiling at the gentle, sleeping creature in his hands. Qrow does not stir as he places the corvid upon strong thighs; Clover grins, awakening his terminal and getting started on the report, mindful to keep the tapping of the buttons as quiet as possible to not awaken the bird. Every once in a while, he cannot help but reach down; there is a crest upon the corvid’s brow that flutters whenever Qrow exhales, and the sweetness of the image is too much to resist, so Clover makes due with petting and scratching around the crest every time he finishes filling out a box. It is a little treat for himself, and he shall savour it.

The report takes far longer than it normally does. He does not mind.

The report is almost finished when red eyes blink blearily up at him from his lap; suddenly, Clover cries out as an adult body fills the spot where the crow had just been, Qrow’s transformation effectively trapping the elder upon Clover’s lap from underneath the table. A series of disgruntled, horrified grunts and cries spills from Qrow’s half-asleep throat as his torso falls clumsily upon Clover’s chest, and Clover almost laughs; however, he is so close to finishing the report that he merely grabs Qrow’s head, pulls the elder down to lay his cheek against Clover’s broad shoulder, and reaches around the elder’s waist to continue typing.

For a long, quiet moment, Qrow is curled up in his lap, beet-red and stock-still- too shock to even move. Clover leans back into his chair and scoots up closer to the monitor, grinning ever-so-slightly as the movement traps Qrow upon his lap; he does not mind the weight, the heat, the closeness. It is comforting. It feels right.

Finally, Clover strokes Qrow’s hair tenderly, holding him close for a moment- just a brief moment is all he can afford, inhaling the scent of cologne and aftershave and _Qrow-_ then pats him on the back. “Double-check this, put your name on the report, and we’ll send her in,” he says wryly.

Those words are the trigger that causes Qrow to shift, transforming once again into a bird in a flurry of feathers raining down upon Clover; the bird flaps its wings hard enough to disrupt the stacks of paper upon Elm’s unkempt desk in the corner, flying away from Clover before transforming back into a man, collapsing upon Vine’s perfectly-clear workstation in a flustered frenzy. Qrow looks affronted beyond belief, red eyes so wide he can scarcely believe that Qrow isn’t related to Ruby by blood with their faces so similar to one another in their timidity. From the tips of his ears around to his nose, Qrow’s face is flushed, mildly splotchy with red-hot heat and embarrassment, the man catching his breath as he realizes what position they had just been in.

Clover crosses one knee over the other casually, flipping the holoscreen around to face Qrow. “Seriously, take a look. We’ve got to get this in by tonight.”

Qrow complies silently, absolutely fuming.

His anger doesn’t stop him from staying in his crow form a little more often after that. Clover pretends he doesn’t notice, but he can see; Qrow always waits for the younger to stroke his head before transforming back into a human. Clover always obliges, his mind a million miles away- Qrow, as a human, fits against Clover perfectly, he has realized. Knowing that, he would much rather have the man in his arms than the bird, but for now, the crow will have to do.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Fuck,_ my luck-”

“Is that an invitation?”

The glower Qrow sends him, mixed with sheer incredulity and pure, scandalized embarrassment, sends reverberations through them both as Clover begins to chuckle, grimacing as stone shifts upon his back. In his earpiece, to the sounds of gunfire and screaming Grimm, Marrow and Harriet are calling out reassuring words in a never-ending stream of support as Elm begins to dig them out of the rubble and Vine stabilizes the crumbling cave above; Clover quickly mutes them, eliciting a horrified look from Qrow, visible even in the darkness of their confines.

Qrow’s crimson eyes glow in the light of their Auras stitching up their wounds, but no matter how much their bodies heal, there is not enough Aura in the world that can save them without external help. Clover can feel the anxiety and guilt rolling off of Qrow’s form in waves, but he finds that he doesn’t mind their situation; he quite likes it, if he is being honest with himself.

After all, Qrow’s body is pressed up against his, their body heat mingling and warming the pocket of air in the tiny space they have been trapped in thanks to the cave-in which has caused this mess. Jutting rock and shards of ice threatening to stab into his back are the perfect excuses to move closer to Qrow, to lean in, to feel the elder’s form against his own.

Qrow’s eyes nearly bug out as Clover presses his chest gently against the elder’s, their faces only scant inches apart. Even in this hollow, the air is frigid, their breath mingling and rising as vapour between them; Clover can smell Qrow’s aftershave and underneath it all, his skin, and he wants to bury his nose in the crook of Qrow’s neck more than anything to consume it closer. He does not, merely shrugging. “I trust my team to get us out of here, so why listen to them yelling?” he whispers into Qrow’s ear, grinning as he feels Qrow sharply intake a breath as Clover’s voice tickles his skin, causing gooseflesh to rise. “I doubt we’ll get to relax for very long. Just enjoy the break.”

“Break?! Your team is fighting!”

“And we’ll do our part to make it up to them for the save,” he replies smoothly, moving his hands to rest upon Qrow’s hips from where they had been previously on either side of Qrow’s face. He leans one knee forward, resting it between Qrow’s thighs, biting back his grin as Qrow immediately flushes and turns away. He can tell that the elder just wants to move away, to have some space- not out of want to be alone, but out of shyness.

He trails one hand up Qrow’s side until it rests against a thin waist. The movements are clunky, careful, for they do not have room to manoeuvre idly in their prison of ice and stone. Eventually, however, his hand is by Qrow’s face, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and stroking away dust and dirt from Qrow’s cheek. With his other hand, he kneads Qrow’s hip, watching Qrow’s expression twist into that torn look of desire and mortification that Clover has come to adore so deeply. The elder shivers under Clover’s ministrations, mouth forming into a pout that Clover wants to taste, furrows between his brows aching for Clover to smooth away.

He does not, though; he can hear rock being shifted above him. Soon, they will be freed, the battle will begin once again, and Clover has no desire for his subordinates to see just how much affection he holds for this Huntsman who crash-landed into his arms weeks ago. While they wait for the light to filter through their cage, however, he is content with watching Qrow’s eyes flutter close as the elder finally gives up on restraint, succumbing to his desire to simply lean into Clover’s touch.

And then, it happens- Qrow’s hands, reaching up, settling around Clover’s waist, too.

In any other situation, Clover knows his own fears would be skyrocketing. He is not a fan of small places, and the thought of being trapped underneath metres of rubble is terrifying in concept. With the elder held against, him, however, he does not feel uncomfortable in the slightest; their bodies fit perfectly together, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: angst (but also, FINALLY something happens)

He does not know how he has ended up here, but Clover is not complaining, for the tenderness in his heart and the heat pressed against his chest are both so easily overpowered by the scalding sting of tears falling upon his collarbone. He does not push the other man away, however, enduring the pain, the sensation of rivulets dripping down his chest burning him in their wake; he will withstand anything, for the way that Qrow’s shoulders tremble in his hold only makes Clover want to hold the elder tighter.

He is grateful that the tiny closet does not have a light within. He does not know how he could ever hide the fact that his eyes are welling up as Qrow silently sobs against him; he knows for certain he could not hide the adoration in his face if Qrow was looking for his usual confidence.

With a touch so gentle he can scarcely believe it is his own, he allows his arms to wrap snugly around Qrow’s shoulders, one hand upon Qrow’s back, pulling his closer, while the other intertwines with dark, feathery hair, stroking and scratching and smoothing in time with every quaking sob from the elder. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice low, rumbling within his chest; he knows his earnestness connects with Qrow’s heart, for the other man buries his face deeper against Clover’s shoulder, collapsing wholly into the younger’s body.

Ruby is currently unconscious down the hall. She shall survive; she is safe. Qrow had been nothing short of valiant in his efforts to bring her back, pure willpower and sheer adrenaline giving him the strength to haul her up to Atlas in time to receive medical assistance. Until Yang and the other rookies had arrived, Qrow’s face had remained stony and strong, projecting power and confident, self-assured pride, easing the fears of everyone else looking at their broken friend and leader.

However, the moment Clover had arrived, Qrow had dragged him down the hall, shoved him into this storage closet, and collapsed.

Haggard breaths die down, hot against Clover’s skin as Qrow pants, the weariness finally taking a toll on his body. Knees wobble, dark, bloodshot eyes growing half-lidded, not out of lust but out of fatigue; Clover instinctively tucks his arms under Qrow’s armpits as the elder properly crumbles, so Clover lowers the man to the ground.

Without a word, Clover sits as well, leans back against the wall of the closet and draws Qrow, gasping for air and coherency while upon his knees, towards him. There is no seduction, no languid motion filled with wanton desire; he simply knows that the elder cannot be alone. He has spent enough time with Qrow by this point to understand what he needs. So, without delay, he pulls the elder into his lap so that lean, wiry legs straddle him, shoving away the arousal which automatically begins to pool in his gut as he feels Qrow’s weight in upon his thighs. Qrow is too weary to protest, his sudden breakdown having sapped the life out of him, so Clover props up Qrow’s arms around Clover’s neck for him, then places one hand on Qrow’s cheek, just as Qrow likes.

Immediately, Qrow’s half-asleep, dizzy form nuzzles against his palm. Clover bites back the groan that wants so desperately to slip past his lips as Qrow moves against him, shifting innocently in his bewildered, cried-out stupor; instead, he focuses on wiping the tears off of Qrow’s cheeks, whispering, “You brought her back. You saved her, Qrow. She’ll be fine, and we’ll take it from here. You’re the best uncle she could ever ask for, and I’m so proud of you.”

His words are barely audible, but he knows Qrow can hear in the darkness of this confined space; he sees the shadowy features before him twist as Qrow processes those words, grief mixing with relief. “She’ll be okay,” Qrow breathes, all haggard desperation.

As Clover’s heart soars at the _sweetness_ of the creature in his arms, so desperate to protect the little girls he calls his _home,_ he does not know what comes over him; all Clover can identify is that something compels him to move, for suddenly he is not whole, drawn forward to his missing piece almost magnetically. The pull between himself and his other half is too much to bear, and he cannot process the movements until they are complete, until the distance is closed- until his hand, still cupping Qrow’s cheek, thumb wiping away thick, fat drops which roll down his gaunt face, moves to brush against chapped, bitten, swollen lips- until Clover replaces that touch with his own lips, and Qrow is pressed flush against him.

Wet eyelashes flutter against Clover’s skin, his nose brushing damp cheeks, the whimpering sobs escaping Qrow’s mouth thick as Clover swallows them into his own. His tongue does not delve deeper, for all he wants is to silence those cries, for they are in a broom closet down the hall from Qrow’s unconscious niece and even in these moments, a glimmer of propriety rings in the back of Clover’s mind; however, he allows neither Qrow nor himself to breathe again until the trembling of Qrow’s shoulders has ceased, until sobs have turned into hiccups and sniffles that Clover is happy to giggle at. When they finally part, Qrow does not move away from Clover’s lap, simply holding still, noses touching, watery eyes glinting even in the faint light seeping in from underneath the door.

“You did well,” Clover reiterates once more, holding Qrow’s face in his hands.

And, before he can say another word, Qrow smiles weakly. “Thanks, boy scout,” he breathes, and just like that, Qrow falls asleep in Clover’s arms, the exhaustion finally winning over completely.

Clover takes the emergency stairwells and unused hallways to carry Qrow in his arms back to his quarters, leaving him behind with a kiss on the forehead and water bottle and a note to stay and sleep, for Clover shall watch over Ruby until Qrow is strong enough once more. That is his promise.


	9. Chapter 9

Qrow is not amused by this turn of events, but Clover certainly is.

What had begun as a snowball fight between the rookies has long since turned into a full-scale battle between the rookies, the Ace Ops, and a few students from Atlas Academy, leading to more than one broken window and multiple injuries. How everyone has gotten so drawn into it, Clover has no idea, for he missed all of the escalation whilst stuck in his office finishing up work; the only reason he has even learned of the event was from a knock at his window, Penny hovering outside with a gleeful, innocent grin, announcing that the Ace Ops required assistance in the main courtyard.

Upon seeing the carnage, Clover had no pity for anyone involved. He did, however, happily remove a groaning, drenched, shivering Qrow from the fray and help him back inside, guiding him up to Clover’s quarters. Qrow is too incensed by the entire affair to notice where their feet are leading them- he did not want to join, he insists, blaming his ungainly state on Ruby and Yang and Nora- so it is only when they step through the threshold of Clover’s room that Qrow pauses, realizing suddenly that he has not only tracked ice and mud and water all through the academy’s pristine halls, but that he is also soaked to the bone and decidedly not in his own chambers to clean up.

Clover does not push him, simply laying out a fresh towel upon his bed and a change of clothes for the elder, digging through his closet to find laundry detergent so he can wash the elder’s clothes.

Thankfully, Qrow’s face relaxes within a heartbeat, a wry, tender curve of his lips lighting his face, happiness creasing the corner of his eyes enough to prove to Clover that he isn’t overstepping, that he isn’t unnecessary.

After Qrow has bathed and gotten dressed, it takes all of Clover’s strength to not blush; the bathroom door opens just as Clover returns from the laundry room shared between those in his wing, steam escaping the door only to reveal a bare, creamy torso, water glistening as it rolls down a defined chest. Clover’s sweatpants are far too loose for the elder, so they sag loosely around his hips, toned muscle littered with scars on display for all the world to see along with dark, coarse hairs that trail down below, contrasting perfectly with his colouring. Clover gulps in the doorway, soaking in the sight of flushed skin across Qrow’s cheeks and chest from the heat, hair clinging to his forehead, still dripping.

Then, Clover takes in a deep breath and closes the door behind him, putting away his laundry detergent. “And I’m supposedly the _younger_ one?” he teases, grabbing another towel from his closet. He beckons Qrow over to the bed, sitting the flustered man down before he can move away; then, he drapes the towel over Qrow’s hair and begins to gently dry it.

Qrow freezes for a moment. Clover pauses in his motions, a sharp, chilling fear striking him- perhaps he has gone too far?- until he sees Qrow’s abdomen tense up, laughter spilling from his lips. “What am I, a kid?” Qrow chuckles, looking up at Clover with mirth shining in his eyes, barely visible under the edge of the towel.

Clover smirks, teasingly tossing the long end of the cloth into Qrow’s face. As the elder splutters in protest, Clover steps between Qrow’s knees, drawing in close before he continues properly drying his hair, running the end of the towel down Qrow’s cheek, his neck, his chest. He is light, careful in his movements; since the day of Ruby’s brief hospitalization, they have not explored further, not pushed the boundaries. He does not want to go too far- well, he _does,_ for nothing will ever be far _enough,_ but he shall be patient.

As he works, however, he finds it increasingly difficult to hold back. Qrow’s eyes begin to fall shut as Clover methodically dries his hair, massaging his scalp with the towel, running it down his back tenderly. His head begins to lean forward, then to the side, until the elder simply gives up and allows himself to just rest his forehead against Clover’s chest. Clover smiles, leaning his knee against the mattress as he pulls away from Qrow, pushing his hair back and placing a single kiss upon his forehead before he allows Qrow to close his eyes and rest against Clover once again.

From the opened window, they can hear the telltale shrieks of the battle beginning once more echoing all the way through the school grounds. It is probably Clover’s duty to go stop it. He does not, merely closing the window and returning to Qrow until the elder’s hair is finally dried, longing to replace the towel upon Qrow’s skin with his hands, chest, lips, until Qrow is properly warm once again.


	10. Chapter 10

There is a small lounge in the officer’s wing near Clover’s quarters; it is a place for staff to relax with one another, taking time off from their hectic schedules to unwind completely out of uniform. However, very few people use it, leaving it perfect for Clover to visit, to find some solace in his solitude, every time he cannot sleep.

He sits upon a small armchair tucked in the corner of the room, eyes half-open and bleary as the caffeine he had consumed far too late continues to course through his system; he longs to simply go to bed, but with so much to do each day and checklists still racing through his mind, he cannot find rest.

In his hands is his Scroll. He aimlessly flicks through old movies and television which has been saved upon their shared network, trying to find something- anything- that can distract him.

The door swings open and his distraction enters in another form. “You weren’t in your room,” Qrow murmurs, running his fingers through his hair sheepishly, dressed down in tapered slacks and t-shirt. The relaxed attire is odd to see on the man, but Clover quite likes it- it feels familiar, cozy, to see him so unguarded with Harbinger nowhere in sight.

There are many other couches around the room, all of which are still comfortable thanks to little use from the other staff. Clover beckons him over without hesitation, gesturing to the empty seats. “Take your pick. What’s up? Did you need me for something?”

Qrow’s eyes fall to the floor as he makes his way towards the younger man, a distinct look of hesitant shame visible even in the scant light cast off from the holoscreen on the opposite wall. Clover’s heart seizes- there is naught to be ashamed of, for Qrow has done so incredibly well (almost terrifyingly so, if he is to be honest) since he has come to Atlas. His mind frantically searches for what may be the cause of his clumsy entrance, coming up with only one possibility.

He has heard of Qrow’s quest to quit drinking completely from James. He does not know what it must feel like to have to fight against one’s own instincts so, but the unease in Qrow’s brow makes him grateful for that fact.

Before Qrow can sit down upon a nearby armchair, Clover stops him. He moves over slightly upon his own seat; it is not really built for two grown men, but that will not matter. Qrow pauses, confused, but obliges anyways, his trust and curiosity evident.

When he is close enough, Clover gently grabs his hand and pulls, dragging him to sit upon the little space between Clover at the armrest; Qrow yelps and blushes, his cheeks flushed an almost lilac-tinted hue under the light from the holoscreen. Without hesitation, Clover scoops the man’s legs up until they lie across Clover’s lap- until the two are nestled comfortably in the chair.

The elder tries to move his legs away, but Clover wraps his arms around muscled calves, holding him in place. Qrow buries his face in a hand, groaning, “What the hell is this all about?”

Clover shrugs, all nonchalant comfort. He hands Qrow his Scroll, murmuring, “Pick something. I can’t choose.”

“We can watch something from _different chairs-”_

“I’m cold, though.”

Releasing an exasperated, world-weary sigh that he usually saves for his nieces, Qrow complies, turning his attention to the screen with nearly glowing cheeks, ruddy and spotted. The closeness sends Clover’s heart racing in his chest, his eyes having long-since forgotten the screen as he lays his chin upon Qrow’s bent knees, his hands finding purchase massaging a toned calf, the nape of a tense neck.

Qrow melts into his touch, as always, sinking into Clover’s hands and heat after a few minutes of embarrassed protest; Clover does not feel guilty about holding him there, however, for he can see the tender smile playing across Qrow’s lips as he focuses upon the holoscreen, the sleepiness in his eyes increasing with every pressure point played by Clover’s hand.

It is halfway through the film Qrow has flippantly chosen that Clover murmurs, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Qrow hums, shaking his head slightly, distracted. “I… don’t think I need to anymore.”

Clover smiles, closing his eyes and laying a cheek upon bony knees. “’Kay.”


	11. Chapter 11

“How did I get here?”

“Do you really want to know?”

A wince, a sigh, a delicate touch to a sore forehead, a knot forming as Aura flickers weakly across pale, bruised skin. “Unfortunately.”

Stifled laughter, a fond smile. “You knocked yourself out with Harbinger when trying to dodge me.”

A splutter, a choked, indignant cry, an angry sigh. Defeat. “And why are we lying down?”

“I thought you’d prefer it if people just thought we were hanging out.”

“…and looking at the ceiling lights?”

A shrug, a stretch. Hands tucked behind brown hair, cushioning a smiling head. “They’re pretty, at least.”

A wry snort. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“…ready to go home?”

“Yeah.”

Clover does not mind helping Qrow to his knees, nor does he mind pointing out the elder’s swollen ankle- “You tripped over yourself- I’m not laughing!” he cries in response to Qrow’s glowering huffs, all red-faced and mortified- when the elder stumbles, crying out in pain as he puts pressure upon the injury. He simply sits Qrow down upon a bench, carefully removes his shoe, and bandages up a swollen, splotchy, twisted ankle in compression bandages. “It’s only until your Aura is restored,” he explains. “This should tide you over till then.”

Qrow’s cheeks remain ruddy as Clover helps the man balance on his feet yet again, but the elder still struggles. “Tired, old man?”

“I will knock you out and I will _not_ keep you company.”

“Is that an invitation or a threat?”

“Try me.”

And yet, Clover ends up leaving the training room with Qrow upon his back, the elder’s arms holding on tightly around his neck, his strong thighs in Clover’s hands, body pressed flush against Clover. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the heat rising within him as Qrow’s warmth so thoroughly mingles with his own, the urge to run his hands farther up toned legs barely kept at bay. The one hold upon his sanity is the feeling of Qrow’s face pressed against his shoulders in utter embarrassment, the patch of cloth upon which Qrow breathes growing hotter against Clover’s flesh. It simultaneously makes his task easier, and far more difficult, for all Clover can think of is how that breath would feel on skin.

“You know,” Clover murmurs, climbing the stairs, “you’d make a good personal heater. You sure I can’t carry you around more often?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like me to call Ruby to come help?”

He can hear the resignation in Qrow’s voice, can hear the pout upon thin lips. “…fucking lucky charm.”

Clover feels braver with Qrow’s heat keeping him warm, so he lets go of one of Qrow’s legs, reaches up to Qrow’s hands, and grabs the elder’s bony fingers clutching onto Clover’s collar. Without missing a beat, Clover raises them to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of Qrow’s hand.

Qrow almost squawks incoherently, but those cries are silenced once Clover’s tongue slips past his lips to lightly trace the back of Qrow’s index finger; then, Clover releases that hand, grabbing a strong thigh and carrying on with their journey back to Qrow’s room. He makes no comment on how Qrow shifts to hold himself away from Clover’s back, but he notices, and he smiles, knowing that the next day he shall look at that ankle once again- creamy, pale skin, pulled taut over sharp bone, the angle too delicate- perfect for Clover’s lips.

In his mind, at least. He shall wait longer before he tries to make that image a reality.


	12. Chapter 12

Qrow does not shy away when Clover stretches back, reaching an arm up to rest snugly around Qrow’s waist as they sit in the front seat of a supply truck, listening to Jaune and Nora bicker in the backseat over the video game they are playing on their Scrolls. The Atlesian Knight driving is locked to face the front, programmed to drive to their destination and back, only stopping at Clover’s command; it will not pick up anything unless it is ordered to.

So, as Clover’s hand rubs the dip in Qrow’s waist, as he nonchalantly hooks one boot-covered ankle around Qrow’s, the younger feels more than assured in their anonymity.

For a moment, Qrow is unaffected, more confused than anything else. “You need something, boy scout?” he asks, raising a brow.

It takes all Clover has to not grin, feral and fierce, for Qrow has become so accustomed to his touch that he does not even flinch. And, judging by the tinge of pink glowing prettily in the tips of the elder’s ears, Clover knows that he is not opposed to the touch, either.

Clover longs to push. He longs to go further, to make Qrow’s heat indistinguishable from his own. So, with his free hand, he grabs Qrow’s fingers and brings up his hand to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss upon the back of his hand, just as he has in the past.

Qrow is blushing immediately, flustered beyond belief. He does not push Clover’s hand away; his fear lies in his glances over his shoulder, spotting the two rookies in the back. “What if-“ he whispers hotly, scandalized.

Clover grins, allowing Qrow to yank his hand back in horror. “’What if’ what?”

Qrow freezes, shock twisting into a deadpan glare. “You’re definitely Jimmy’s soldier,” he grumbled, turning back to face the front. “What an ass.”

Clover is not offended, merely smiling as he slides closer so their thighs press, their heat mingles- so that his arm around a thin waist can reach down, brushing Qrow’s belt.

The elder’s back straightens immediately, nostrils flaring as panic overtakes his face. Clover watches it all in wry amusement, but he does not back down, merely capturing Qrow’s nearest hand with his free one yet again, holding him hostage.

Clover tugs on a leather belt. Qrow’s eyes widen so much that Clover can finally see the resemblance between him and his nieces, lids no longer halfway shut with fatigue; crimson glitters in the light reflecting off the snow, so rich and deep in the wintry landscape that he can stare at them forever. Ruby and Yang are sweet, but Qrow is the prettier one in his eyes.

Cool, callused fingers stretch downwards, brushing the thick material of Qrow’s slacks- the touch is insistent, yet careful, kneading a hip, a thigh, wrapping around to rest painfully-still atop his lap. Qrow’s face seems to burn, panic slowly overtaken by shock and _want_ as he bites his lips, gaze locked straight ahead. He raises a stubble-covered chin in defiance, but with his lips pressed together and brows twitching as Clover massages the top of his thigh, it is clear that he is expectant.

And then, the truck drives over a bump in the road, and as Clover’s hand presses downwards thanks to the jolt, Qrow lets out what can only be a moan, the noise saved in Clover’s mind forever _._

“What was that?” Nora calls, head popping up over the rows of boxes behind them.

Clover grins and looks over his shoulder. “Do any of you have any anti-nausea medicine? Qrow’s not feeling too well,” he murmurs as his fingers trail upwards, pressing against a firm stomach.

Jaune immediately perks up. “I’ve got it! Don’t worry.” He pulls a small pill sheet out of his pack and hands it to Clover over the back of the seat before the two rookies go back to their game, leaving Qrow and Clover with the medicine.

“I’m not sick,” Qrow hisses under his breath.

Clover pops one pill out anyways. “I know.” He holds the medicine up to Qrow’s face. “Would you like me to feed it to you?”

Qrow buries his face in his hands, doubling over at the waist. Clover can only chuckle, leaning over onto Qrow’s back, relishing in the sound of Qrow’s heartbeat resonating through his back into Clover’s cheek- it is too rapid to be considered normal.

Clover cannot wait until the uncomfortable desire on Qrow’s face can be replaced by satisfaction.


	13. Chapter 13

“Do you ever get tired of falling for me?”

The _tsk_ which Clover receives in response is so disgusted that he snorts. “The only thing lucky about you is that all the hot air in your head hasn’t caused you to explode yet,” Qrow grumbles. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with this.”

Clover does not mind the surliness, long since having grown used to it. He simply smiles, almost delighted at the opportunity to grab onto Qrow’s hand and help him up, brushing off the man’s shoulders and straightening out his collar. There is no need to do these things. The tint upon Qrow’s cheeks stirs him onwards anyways, and he repeats his actions each and every time, pushing it further little by little.

The elder has always been clumsy; that has been clear from their very first mission together, the man inelegantly tripping on air time and time again in the mines on that first hunt. It is a little frightening to think back to that day, to when Qrow was naught more than an ally he was learning to fight alongside. That lack of balance had felt like a liability. Now, things are so, _so_ different; he is more than happy for a reason to grab onto the elder, to steady him on his feet and make him cling onto Clover. If he could get away with carrying the man, completely sweeping him off his feet, he would- he probably would have to face a very angry, armed Huntsman if he did that, though.

The day turns into night as their mission continues, the flock of Teryxes they are stalking growing flightier with every attempt at an assault. Clover does not mind. The other Ace Ops are in position, and Qrow is by his side, so he knows there is no cause for concern. If they need to, each squad as the materials to make camp, so they shall survive the icy night easily.

Qrow groans as the sun finally slips below the horizon, reaching into his pocket to pull out his Scroll. He flicks on the flashlight and hooks it to his belt. Clover checks in with the others, confirming their positions and carrying on with their search and destroy mission. The moment the communication line clicks off, however, Clover does not hesitate to reach out to Qrow, grabbing onto one of his hands.

The elder freezes, perplexed. Experimentally, he tugs at his hand, but Clover does not release him. “You need something?” he asks, befuddled.

“It’s dark,” Clover shrugs, all nonchalant knowing. “I just don’t want you to trip and fall again- what if I can’t catch you?”

The eye roll is exaggerated so that Clover can see it in the shadows, but Qrow’s smile is just as visible; he sighs, extracting his hand to open up the radar upon his Scroll. “You’re such… ugh.” He steps forward into the darkness, rambling far more confidently that he has any right too after all of the tumbles of the day. Clover is quick to follow, easily catching up with long strides.

Qrow’s smile remains upon his lips as he adds under his breath, “I doubt you’d let me fall, boy scout.”

Those words send a rush of heat racing through Clover’s body; his fist tightens and squeezes on instinct, want flooding his veins. He fully wants to cheer, biting back his glowing smile, his eyes widening automatically in wonder. He wants to gather the elder up in his arms.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out- only to stumble forward in the darkness. With a grunt, he manages to skip forward, grabbing onto the back of Qrow’s vest. In a mess of bodies and limbs and Scrolls and weapons, Clover finds himself laying atop of Qrow, body pressed flushed against his. Qrow is the barrier between him and the ice, and all Clover can feel is his heat, his heartbeat, his touch, wide crimson eyes shadowy in the darkness as they look up in surprise at Clover’s face.

“…You gonna get up anytime soon?”

Clover leans back, ready to move- then grabs Qrow’s shoulders, quickly rolling over so that he is now underneath Qrow, delighting in the way Qrow’s expressions dance so beautifully between confusion to shock to resignation, and finally, to wry affection. He reaches up and twines his finger into Qrow’s dark hair, murmuring, “There. Better?”

“Let go.”

“We could always make camp here. Start a fire.” He winks, feeling bolder than usual. “I’m sure we can figure out how to keep warm.”

Qrow scrabbles for the Scroll upon his belt and shines the flashlight directly into Clover’s face, startling him into releasing Qrow’s hair. “You’re a moron, Clover.”

The elder is still slow to lift himself off of Clover, just as Clover is slow to stand until Qrow begrudgingly holds out his hand to help the younger up. Clover grins, taking the assistance, winding his fingers between Qrow’s yet again- and until they find their targets lurking further in the shadows, Qrow does not pull away, and Clover does not let go.


	14. Chapter 14

Clover’s mouth twitches as he processes the words spoken to him. Brows remain furrowed, eyes retain their concern- but the corner of his lips quirks up for just a second, dimple appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye. He hopes he is safe, that he has not been found out.

No such luck- Qrow glares at him in an attempt to be threatening, coming off as far more pitiful than anything. His forehead is slick with sweat, his skin pale, wan. Waxy lips are parched, begging for sustenance; red eyes water, locked in a perpetual frown.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten the casserole,” Clover murmurs lightly, standing up and heading over to his bathroom. His medicine cabinet should have something to help the issue. Whether or not it will be enough to ease the man’s embarrassment is a different question entirely. “Jaune gets enough of those to last the kids for days- you could have just dug into the newest one.”

“I didn’t realize that it was old! And we missed dinner timings because of that mission, too- ugh,” the elder tries to protest, ending up groaning and falling back onto the sofa, clutching his stomach with one hand and covering his eyes with his other arm.

The younger simply chuckles, relief coursing through him; when he had seen the elder’s stilted behaviour earlier, he had feared the worst. Now, however, it takes all he has to bite back the cackles which long to slip from his lips. _Leave it to Qrow to somehow eat old casserole and get sick._

The jibes are loving, however. He feels nothing but fondness and care for the elder as he brings over medicine and a glass of water. Qrow sits up and knocks it back in one shot, grimacing at the taste. As he sits upright, groaning about the pain and the chalkiness of the pill, Clover squeezes in and sits where Qrow’s head had been resting.

Qrow sends him a weary sigh over his shoulder. “I’m kind of lying down here, buddy.”

“I know,” Clover smiles, not breaking eye contact, a silent challenge to move to a different seat- to leave Clover hanging.

The elder frowns, then blushes, the little bit of colour bringing life back to his face; with a pout, he leans back, resting his head upon Clover’s lap.

Clover is quick to smooth dark, grey-streaked strands out of Qrow’s eyes, tender and gentle in his motions. Qrow still looks embarrassed to the ends of Remnant and back, but the elder simply closes his eyes and focuses on the motions; Clover softens as the strain in Qrow’s brow relaxes slightly, the arm clutching his belly falling back to his side. Clover replaces that hand with his own, rubbing the elder’s stomach- there is no sensuality here, no focus put upon the lines and planes and defined muscle of Qrow’s body. His only goal is to soothe.

“What am I, a kid?” Qrow mumbles, burying his face in his hands.

“No, but everyone needs something like this once in a while,” Clover replies, nonchalant.

Qrow’s eyes peek through long fingers. “Oh, so you want me to do this to you?”

Clover winks, wearing a sly grin. “You can do whatever you want, Mr. Branwen.”

Qrow’s face is hidden once again in his hands as he squawks incoherently, but Clover does not stop his tender motions, chuckling lowly through it all. The room is dark- the only thing lighting the entire chamber is the moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains- but he can still see the way Qrow’s body slowly eases. And, as minutes pass and Qrow’s flush disappears, a healthier glow returning to his skin as the medicine takes effect, Clover can only bite back the warmth that surges up within him as he watches Qrow’s head loll to the side, the elder falling asleep in his lap.

As discreetly as he can, Clover reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Scroll, snapping a quick picture. He saves it and sets it as his background photo, for he has never seen the elder look so serene as he does lying in Clover’s embrace, Clover’s hand still rubbing his stomach.

It is a precious moment, he thinks. Qrow is handsome as a Huntsman, striking beyond compare upon the battlefield. But nothing quite matches the beauty of the elder when he is vulnerable like this.

Qrow’s chest rises and falls with the tranquility of an infant after a meal. Before he can stop himself, Clover leans in and presses his lips against the elder’s temple before scrolling through his saved audio on his Scroll. Clicking on his earpiece, he sinks back into the sofa and closes his eyes, content to listen to music in that position whilst the elder sleeps off his discomfort, the weight of Qrow bringing more warmth and security that Clover has ever felt.


	15. Chapter 15

Clover awakens to a curious thing; he first comes back into consciousness with the faint sensation of something tracing his face, a touch so light he believes in his foggy mind that it is naught but imagination. Awareness soon follows sensation as sleep starts to drift away, his shoulders immediately crying out, stiff and sore- his back aches, too. He orients himself- he is sitting upright, rather than lying down in his bed.

And then, the touch grows more insistent and his mind starts honing in upon it. They are fingertips, he realizes distantly; callused and rough, tracing his closed eyes, his cheekbones, his jawline. He wants to frown, to shake off this touch so rudely invading his space, but something within him urges him to remain still, to keep breathing, to allow the touch to continue. He wants this to continue.

Then, he notices the numbness of his thighs and the weight resting upon him, and it all clicks into place.

It takes all of his efforts to hold back the immediate smile which screams in want, desperate to emerge in the face of Qrow. Qrow is still in his lap. Qrow is touching his skin. This touch-starved, lonely, gruff man is exploring _Clover unbidden._

The elation only escalates as that touch moves onto his hair, brushing through combed-back strands with a tenderness that Clover has not even seen the elder show his nieces. Clover almost lets out a moan as those long fingers push into his scalp, needy, insistent; nails scrape his skin lightly and he feels himself blush, heat pooling in his lap as he focuses all his efforts into maintaining his breathing rate.

Then, Clover feels Qrow take the hand which has been resting upon the elder’s hair all night and stroke his palm affectionately. A gentle caress, a feathery brush, the sound of a kiss ringing through the air.

_He kissed me._

However, Qrow shifts his head in Clover’s lap, brushing accidentally with Clover’s growing erection and freezing at the slight gasp which slips through Clover’s lips. Through lowered lashes, Clover peeks down, seeing the elder’s frightened expression in gauging his alertness, fingers still intertwined intimately with Clover’s hair. Clover’s heart rattles against his ribcage, beating faster and faster as his doubts grow; should he say something? Should he continue to pretend to sleep?

Should he let this opportunity go, or should he act?

_No. Lady Luck won’t let me down._

Smiling tenderly at last, Clover carefully opens his eyes and whispers, “Hey there, handsome.”

He is ready for the body which tries to lurch upright in his lap- Clover catches Qrow’s shoulders and holds him in place before he can flee, gently guiding him back down. “Don’t stop,” he explains hurriedly. “It felt nice.”

“How long were you awake, asshole?!” Qrow hisses, as openly acerbic as ever in his embarrassment.

Clover is not fazed in the slightest, relief coursing through him now that he can openly show his wonder. “Just a few minutes,” he breathes, cupping Qrow’s cheek with the hand Qrow had so lovingly kissed. “Don’t stop. That was amazing.”

The elder’s face is nearly purple, humiliation and fear shining in crimson eyes. He is frozen into motionlessness. Clover sighs, brushing Qrow’s hair out of his face before he leans down, whispering, “Fine. My turn.”

Before the elder can respond, Clover twines his fingers into Qrow’s hair, nails scratching his scalp, tugging gently upon long, dark strands. Qrow’s eyes widen in surprise as he leans down, pressing lips against Qrow’s temple- dragging them down to an eyelid- across the bridge of a long, straight nose, to a cheek, to a stubbly chin. Clover moves slowly, his other hand kneading Qrow’s shoulder, massaging the nape of his neck, dragging heavily down a far-too-clothed chest across a defined abdomen. All of the desire and curiosity that had been absent the night before is back in full force, his lips parting after each kiss to let out a tiny wanton sigh.

Qrow’s brows are furrowed together, mouth twisted into a grimace. For a moment, Clover pauses, fear striking his core; but as Qrow relaxes in the absence of his touch, Clover turns to look down, spotting the growing tent in Qrow’s pants as well.

Without hesitation, Clover leans in, capturing Qrow’s lips with his own, tongue delving deep into the hottest mouth he has ever tasted. The heat is searing, stinging; he pulls back, feeling Qrow’s haggard breath mix with his for just a moment before he dives back in, exploring the mouth he has wanted to taste for so long. He curls in around Qrow, moaning into the other man’s mouth as the strain in his slacks grows ever-tighter, Qrow’s hands flying up to grab onto Clover’s hair and _pull._ Clover responds by pressing against Qrow’s chest, his abdomen, finally locating the growing bulge in his own slacks and scratching lightly across it.

The elder bucks his hips up against Clover’s fingers, and the husky moans that enter Clover’s throat from Qrow’s are the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.

Eventually, they pull apart, strands of saliva stretching between bitten lips. Qrow’s mouth falls open, and Clover cannot help himself from quickly leaning back in and running his tongue over the elder’s canines, just as he has always wanted to do. They are sharp, so much so that he winces, but there is far more pleasure induced by the sting than what can be deemed healthy.

Qrow breathes out, shaking, haggard. “Why?” he whispers.

Clover grins, pressing one kiss against Qrow’s forehead. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he confesses.

The scarlet which takes over Qrow’s face matches his eyes, but Clover doesn’t care; he isn’t able to see it for very long, anyways, as he dives back in, for he has not eaten his fill- not by a long shot.


	16. Chapter 16

Too many supply trucks have been attacked on the way to Amity, leaving no other choice but to set up another rest stop halfway through. The building is erected quickly, but the staffing is slow; no one is eager to spend three-day shifts in the middle of the tundra, waiting for cargo trucks to roll in a few times a day. However, there is no debate to be had, and everyone shall take a turn.

Clover and Qrow are two of the first to venture out into the wilderness. Elm jokes that perhaps Clover can dig a hole out back over the frozen lake a few hundred yards away, finally going ice fishing despite the fact that the ice runs thirty feet deep; Vine is quick to remind them to be on their guard, for being alone creates a prime target for Grimm.

Clover is not worried. After all, the Grimm are attracted to negativity. He does not foresee them noticing his presence if he gets to be alone with Qrow.

Qrow unpacks his kit into the makeshift bunk that has been hastily thrown together. “Should we sort out shifts now, or later?” he asks, focused entirely on the mission.

Clover shrugs, unpacking the box of MREs into the cupboards for the next week. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he says, all breezy confidence.

Qrow sends him an odd look, and Clover does not blame him, for they both know it is unlike him to be so nonchalant about shifts and timings; Clover has not become the leader of Atlas’ Ace Operatives for his relaxed nature, after all. And yet, the younger cannot bring himself to care, for the only giddy (and wholly unprofessional) thought in his mind is that _I’m going to be alone with Qrow for three days._

He has three days. And ever since he has crossed that boundary with Qrow, ever since he gathered the elder up in his arms and confessed his feelings and tasted the lips he has been watching for all this time, he has been waiting for a chance to go further. He shall not waste this opportunity.

It is easy to see that Qrow likely feels the same. The other man has been avoiding direct eye contact with Clover all day, but the smile upon his lips and the peace in his eyes shows that he suffers no trepidation towards their guard shift.

Eventually, the station is set up- and just in time, too, for the first truck of the morning rolls by. Ruby hops out gleefully from the front seat and jumps onto Qrow’s arm, teasing him as he tries to use a clipboard and complete their survey checklists. Clover looks over the haul and gives Marrow a tour of the station, for he is next on the list to suffer upon the lonely tundra once Clover’s shift is over.

Once the kids have moved on, the Atlesian Knight at the wheel not giving them a second glance, Clover gestures towards the small station. “Lunch?”

“Sounds good.”

There is a companionable silence as they boil their rations, heating up the bags of pre-prepared meals so they can enjoy the semblance of a freshly-cooked meal; soon, they are seated at the small table in front of the Dust-fueled heating unit, tearing open plastic packages and digging into spiced rice and meat that contain enough preservatives to kill a lesser man.

Clover looks up when he hears the elder sigh, only to see Qrow slumping over, a pout upon his lips as he slowly chews through his food. “Not a fan?”

“You’d think they’d get better at this over time, but it’s still the same shit from when I was at Beacon,” Qrow sighs.

Clover raises a brow, spotting some sauce and rice upon Qrow’s cheek. For a moment, he reaches out, ready to wipe it off-

But the next truck should only be arriving in three hours.

So, he stands, and before Qrow can react he leans in and kisses the corner of the elder’s mouth, allowing his tongue to clean off the mess. Qrow immediately lurches away, wide-eyed and blushing, mouth turned into a scandalized frown; however, as he realizes what Clover has done, his shock fades to be replaced by timidity, his embarrassment so sweet that Clover cannot help but pull his chair closer to kiss the man yet again.

Finally, Clover pulls away, licking his lips. “…maybe you’re just picky. I think it tastes fine.”

He does not mind the spoonful of sad, mushy rice which gets shoved into his mouth in retaliation, for he knows Qrow will taste it soon enough, too.


	17. Chapter 17

The last truck comes and goes, sparing little time for idle chatter as a storm threatens to overtake the permafrost-ridden lands with thick blankets of snow. They offer to bring Clover and Qrow back- “It won’t be well insulated,” Jaune murmurs worriedly alongside a confused Penny- but the duo reject the offer; Qrow for fear that his Semblance may cause an accident on the way back, and Clover for his own reasons, as unprofessional or impure as they may be.

What Clover does not anticipate, however, is the _silence_ that lingers in their wake, and the toll it takes upon Qrow.

Once all that remains is the silence stretching out over the distance and the two of them, the elder fidgets and taps, the toe of his loafers striking concrete over and over and over against as he tries to quell his clearly-mounting nervousness. Clover watches it all in baffled worry, for he cannot pinpoint what is worrying the man. Is it his Semblance? His cravings? His fear of being alone in the ice fields without a solid shelter?

Clover can alleviate at least two of those worries. For the third, he is happy to provide distraction from the pangs of withdrawal- that is what he _hopes_ to do, after all.

The snow begins to fall properly once their final reports for the day have been submitted, their alarms set for the next day to check in once again with headquarters and the warehouse before dawn. The night is falling, but with the clouds so dense with ice and snow above their heads, the entire world simply looks as if it is being swallowed by a dark grey. It does not concern Clover- the storm should blow over by the next morning, so they shall likely have visitors the next day as long as the roads can be cleared in time. Clover only needs to keep Qrow calm until the next morning.

He is confident. His luck has never failed him.

So, once their bellies are full and their beds are made and the heat generators have kicked on, their tiny sets of fire-Dust both illuminating the checkpoint and warming it up gently, they slip into warmer, more comfortable clothes for the night, shedding their blazers and vests for more layers of socks and sweaters. Clover turns on his Scroll, removes his earpieces, and begins to play soothing music in their tiny little station.

From his small cot, Qrow glances up, staring deadpan at the younger. “…Didn’t think you were into this kind of music,” he comments as Clover sets his Scroll down onto the center table.

Clover shrugs, approaching the elder. “It’s not,” he admits. “I don’t have anything against it. But, do you know what it’s great for?”

“No, what?” Qrow’s owlish look makes him chuckle; without a word, he grabs Qrow’s hand and pulls him to his feet, quickly wrapping one arm around the man’s waist and holding Qrow flush against himself.

Qrow’s startled squeak brings more laughter from his lips as Clover teases, “Dancing, of course.”

The groan which reverberates through the room is priceless. “Why are you _like this,_ boy scout?”

Clover pauses, happily grabbing Qrow’s hands and hooking them around his neck. “Why _aren’t_ you like this?” he replies, snarky and sweet, replacing his hands upon Qrow’s hips and slowly beginning to sway in time with the music. However, when Qrow rolls his eyes, Clover’s smile falls. Softly, he whispers, “I mean it, you know. Why do you always act surprised? I’m pretty sure I made it clear that I want to do these things.”

Red fills with a mix of wry affection and shame before looking away, a sharp canine biting a thin lower lip anxiously. “I… shit, Clover. I don’t usually do this kind of stuff, okay?”

Clover’s heart crumbles. “Misfortune?”

Mutely, Qrow nods.

For a moment, Clover pauses mid-step, knocking Qrow lightly off-balance. He stabilizes the elder before he falls with his lips, his arms, his chest- gathering up Qrow before the elder can flee, can hide, can suffer from his Semblance and his loneliness any longer. His fingers find purchase in dark hair and _tug_ while lips wrap around a long, thin tongue, sucking gently before pulling away, a hairsbreadth of frigid air between them that is quickly warmed by the heat of Clover’s eyes, the frustrated, bittersweet desire in Qrow’s.

Clover does not break eye contact as he guides Qrow backwards towards his cot, does not look away as he knocks the elder back to sit upon the thin air mattress. Qrow’s expression shifts from heartbroken to embarrassed to shocked as he watches Clover sink onto his knees, hands running down Qrow’s shoulders, chest, hips, thighs, until they rest upon bony knees. He leans up to kiss Qrow again, slyly sliding between those knees in the process.

Qrow shakes his head, flustered beyond words as Clover’s hands land upon his belt. Clover merely kisses him again. “May I?”

“Clover, what are- no, you _can’t,_ I-“

“Qrow, I’m not forcing myself.” He releases the clasp. “I want to do this.” Fingers undo the button. “Brothers, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” Fingertips probe the skin underneath, curling deliciously as coarse hairs meet the sensitive touch upon that defined stomach. “And you will never hurt me. I’ll protect us both with my Semblance.”

Red eyes are wide, shell-shocked. “…You’re… you’re serious?”

“About you?” The amount of affection upon Clover’s face is no lie. He too does not remember when it began, when it became his truth- but he wants this, wants _Qrow._ “I’ve always been.”

So, swallowing thickly, Qrow gives him a hesitant nod, allowing Clover to unzip his pants, raising his hips obediently as Clover slides them down strong, muscled thighs, toned calves, off his feet. Qrow cannot bear to look at him, yet cannot bear to tear his eyes away as Clover’s lips leave Qrow’s, only to move downwards- breath hot and heavy over a clothed erection straining against fabric, moving downwards to the inner thigh, inside of a knee, plane of a calf, to his ankle. His lips capture protruding bones at the joint and Qrow _moans,_ the sound almost enough to send Clover over for he has dreamed of watching the elder’s face _twist_ like this for far too long.

Finally, Clover knows that he will give the elder the release he deserves.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finallyyyyyyy

He cannot breathe; he does not care. Motion overtakes his senses, for he has a purpose; sliding, eyes closed, fingers winding into his hair and _holding him there_ whilst breathy pants and moans and gasps echo in his ears. He sings, hums, uses that low timbre that is so commanding to others to whisper and moan and worship with heat filling his mouth, suffocating his throat perfectly, connecting everything together, sending vibrations from his core up into another’s. He wants to smile as the gruff voice from above grows weak, limp, soft, keening and breathy in its want, but he does not, merely looking up through half-lidded emerald and long brown lashes that are pricking involuntarily with rough tears, for he has not done this in years, nor has he wanted to during that time; but now, it is all he can focus upon. What is life, if not this heat?

He pulls back, gasping for air when it grows to be too much, jaw slack and saliva dripping from bruised lips. There is a guilt in crimson eyes as want turns into concern, but he does not allow it for a second, merely dragging one head in for a kiss against his bruised lips before replacing it with another, tongue entering were it should not, eliciting writhing moans and gasps and clawed sheets before he swallows again. And again. And again. His nose itches vaguely against coarse curls. He smiles at the feeling. His smile constricts everything, and fingers find his hair and scratch his scalp and tug and twist, and he wonders how long he has survived without them there for that is where they _belong,_ and he does not breathe, and he does not care.

His heart is full.

Soon, his stomach is, too.

And he swallows around it all, for he has been waiting to hear the roar that rips from a tense, tight abdomen like a bestial cry for far too long, and it is every bit of beauty that he has been dreaming of for so long, ever since he heard a slight hitch in a low voice after the rains fell upon Solitas.

Finally, his lips trail upwards, seeking the flushed, relaxed face panting above him, finding crimson eyes replaced with whites of pleasure, a mouth opened and gasping for air, pink tongue pressed against front teeth. He grins, waiting for whites to disappear and red to return before opening his own mouth, showing proudly that unlike some people, he is a clean eater; and red grows darker, eyes wider, as he wipes saliva off his chin and waits for another command, for he deserves a break from his role as a superior officer and he shall reap the rewards of his patience happily.

And the reward, he finds, is the softest touch he has ever felt upon his skin- tracing up his cheek, a calloused thumb resting underneath his eye, wiping away stinging tears before they can fall. It is the limp, almost pathetic attempt at strength as boneless arms drag him upwards so that they collapse atop one another, hot pants and gasps still aching as they brush his ear. It is the teary smile, the baffled wonderment, as that hoarse voice breathes words of praise and longing into his hair.

And as they lie there, fingers other than his own begin to fumble with his belt, and Clover finally allows himself to breathe for a moment, waiting for his breath to be taken away again.


	19. Chapter 19

Clover vaguely wonders whether he should stick his head out of the window and allow himself to be buried underneath the blizzard. Perhaps that will cool the fire burning him from the inside out.

At the very least, it would blind him, sparing him of this unearthly image; but then, he would no longer be able to see the way his tanned fingers contrast so perfectly with dark hair, intertwined with locks he desperately tries to keep up and out of the way so that he can watch pale lips devour him wholly.

He shall suffer the heat, carve it into his bones. It is worth it. _He_ is worth it.

This image will be carved into him forever; the touch, even more so. He is almost hesitant to pull, to ask for more, for this face which he has grown to adore in all its gaunt, weary, heartbroken imperfection is the _dearest thing in the world_ to him, not for giving him the pleasure, the _blessing,_ of subduing him in its warmth; but for the fact that this is _Qrow_ and that _Qrow is here_ and that _Qrow wants him_ just as badly _._

A swallow, and he groans; another, and his breath hitches, body shaking as he longs for release. He cannot yet, cannot allow himself, cannot give into momentary pleasure in favour of losing this picture, for he must treasure the way that dark brown curls streaked with dirty blonde- the only remnants of the hair colour with which he was born before the rest of his body gained more pigment- press up against a tall, straight nose, splotchy and flushed and slightly running with abandon as this feast continues. Clover has so much to give, and he will gladly provide as long as he is wanted.

Shivers race up his spine and he gasps as he feels a throat, too tight, too narrow, too hoarse, choke and cough against his flesh; immediately, he leans forward and gently pulls the man off, trembling as the air hits saliva-drenched skin, the heat generators in the room never able to warm up the chilly tundra air enough to prevent the tingles assaulting sensitive nerves from the cold. He ignores it all, pushing through in favour of cupping that weary, flushed face, wiping off tears and snot and saliva and gathering up the other in his arms, almost collapsing as he tastes himself upon that pink tongue he would happily consume for all his days. He moves slowly, however, allowing air to pass from his lungs into another’s, allowing his gratitude and heat and affection to scream aloud in every touch, for he cannot describe the wonder he feels for the elder.

Qrow finally pulls away from him, long strings of saliva falling from wet lips. The ragged, growling voice which whispers, “Let me keep going,” almost sends him over the edge, but he merely lets out a shuddering sigh as he nods and smiles, rueful and defeated, for he can never win, and he shall obey forever, holding that angled face in his hands.

And, as that body lowers back down, resting that tall nose against the base before lips drag back up to envelope Clover fully once more, Qrow nuzzles his cheeks against Clover’s hands, red eyes peering up at him in a daze, too wide and so trusting that he finally crumbles and whimpers in want.

The motion is so achingly slow that he almost sobs, the intensity building to a peak so volatile he is upon the edge of combusting, a freefall waiting to happen. He pants, fighting back the urge to be rough, the desire to thrust upwards, to force himself in so deep that the space within shall be permanently carved into his shape; instead, he breathes in deep, letting out haggard sighs, whispering praise and adoration and keeping his fingers gentle and his touch present for he knows that all Qrow has ever wanted is to be held and enveloped so fully that he can finally internalize that he is _no longer alone._ Then, he curls forward, everything clenching tight as he nears the end, unable to cling onto this desperate, wanton warmth any longer.

“…May I?” he begs, pressing his lips against the top of grey-streaked dark strands, throat parched, needing more of Qrow to fill him up, to make him whole again. As he straightens up, heavy-lidded crimson eyes look back up at him, creasing into breathtaking, red-rimmed, puffy crescent moons, lips pulling back to the tip just for a moment to smile and nod before sinking back onto throbbing flesh again, and Clover finally releases.

It is jarring. It is painful. It is the movement of coming so completely undone with a guttural cry that he cannot breathe, he cannot think, he cannot _exist_ outside of this one motion, feeling himself pour down that narrow throat. He can feel the motions, the Adam’s apple bobbing against his thigh as he is drunken in, and that realization adds headiness and disbelief to it all for Qrow will never back down, never allow Clover to win, and Clover adores him for it. He is the better Huntsman. Clover will relinquish that mantle happily, for nothing could be greater than serving in, and learning from, Qrow’s shadow forever.

When he finally collapses, arms thrown back onto the cot by his head, his world in a haze and his chest panting beyond measure, he feels himself slip out of that heat gently before a lean body crawls upwards. Mustering the last of his strength, he grabs underneath the elder’s armpits and pulls him upwards so that feathery hair rests upon his bicep, the weight of the elder soothing to the touch. Weakly, he opens his eyes again, catching sight of red looking at him with a mix of anticipation and worry and warmth; Clover can only smile a warbling smile as he sees white droplets upon Qrow’s cheek, dribbling from the side of his mouth. Without warning, he leans forward and laps at them, capturing himself mingled with Qrow’s skin and saliva in a motion that shocks the elder, but he does not mind; he cannot imagine something more perfect that knowing that he has made Qrow warm again, after so many years of being alone.

“You’re so messy,” he teases.

Qrow blushes, the innocence of it all enough to take Clover’s breath away. “You have a problem with that?”

“No. _I love you_ ,” he breathes once his lips release Qrow’s flesh.

All of that anxiety and fear of disappointing him melts away in Qrow’s eyes, and he smiles, voice hoarse and raspy as he whispers, “Thank you.”

The fact that he does not say the words back does not bother Clover. This gratitude is far greater- after all, Qrow has not pushed him away. He has accepted Clover’s love. He has not left.

He thinks he is worthy of it, and that, in itself, is all the love Clover could ever need.

Clover wants more. For now, however, he simply slips himself and Qrow back into their pants with a weary chuckle, wraps his arms around the elder’s waist, drags the blankets up to cover their intertwined bodies, and kisses him until their mingled breaths both lull them to sleep, awaiting the alarms that shall rouse them before dawn.

Two more days- and then a lifetime more. He cannot wait.


	20. Chapter 20

The next truck shall be there soon. It is Nora and Ren and Vine and Elm upon this run, guarding the shipment from the warehouses to Amity; the duo has naught but a few hours before they arrive. Normally the trip would take longer, in all honestly, but if Nora and Elm are in the same vehicle, Clover knows that there is no way they are driving at proper regulation speeds, no matter how much the two calmer men protest.

He needs to finish this up quickly, it seems. And yet, he cannot bring himself to do it; not with the way Qrow’s eyes are teary, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening down his temple, lips puffy as they wrap around his knuckles, those sharp canines biting hard enough through pale, scarred skin to draw blood had it not been for the elder’s Aura. He cannot stop now, for he has not finished up, has not eaten his fill.

The whimpers and keening gasps for breath, combined with raspy, mocking mutters of, “What are you, a baby?” and the uninhibited rocking of the elder’s heat against his own, separated only by thin fabric and the barest restraint, only fuel him onwards as he wraps his arms around a strong, narrow waist, readjusting the legs which wrap around his thighs, the weight upon his lap so familiar and so comforting that he knows in this moment that this is where he belongs, more than anything. At first, he had been hesitant in this- he is always hesitant at first when it comes to Qrow, only to Qrow, he doesn’t ever want to go too far for Qrow and Qrow alone- but with the way that little puffs of air escape the other’s lips at each suckle, bite, tug, he knows his warmth is welcomed.

Pulling his lips away from a chest that is so bruised and loved that Aura cannot begin to heal everything without the help of time, he looks up to see half-lidded eyes gazing back wantonly at him. “Are you done yet?” is the gasping question which leaves the other’s mouth as his knuckles withdraw, trails of saliva connecting the ridges and puffy lips.

Clover smiles, opening his mouth obediently, waiting. Qrow flushes to the tips of his ears before cool, long, bony fingers enter, probing, diving deeper and deeper until Clover is taken to the bliss of heady suffocation; with one hand, he reaches between them, grabbing hold of them both and caressing the growing heat in his hands, almost in disbelief at it all; with the other, he reaches up, replacing his lips with fingers upon bruised skin and pert flesh which longs for more.

Red eyes almost roll back completely as Clover begins to move his hands, his throat, torn between nothing but the desire to close his eyes and fully submit himself to the _feeling_ and the desire to keep them open, to watch the other come so fully undone by his hands. He wants and wants and wants, wishing he could capture this closeness forever, the sensation of the pads of his fingers and palm growing sticky and slick, his throat closing around foreign objects that can happily live there forever. The heat is greater than anything the generators would be able to emulate.

Eventually, he sticks with the latter decision, and he holds no regrets, watching a pale, stubble-covered chin and neck fully exposed as it is thrown backwards with a wordless cry, begging to be _loved_ as he captures heat dripping through his fingers with such force he cannot contain it all, digits in his mouth curling in delight, causing him to gag so beautifully as the lean, yet muscled body in his arms shakes and keens and writhes, exalted and worshiped the way it is meant to be. He sucks until they slip from his mouth, resting his forehead against a quivering collarbone as the other comes down from his high, the trembling enough to send him over, too.

And then, as the haze clears, he wipes his hand on his towel and brings it up to stroke a panting, shaking back, feeling those damp fingers slick with his saliva tracing chilling circles down each of his vertebrae, lips murmuring words of disbelief and praise and affection into his damp hair, and he feels whole.

They have a few hours before the next shipment arrives. Before then, he can clean them both up, destroy the evidence of their actions. For now, he just wants to stay like this, for this is peace.


	21. Chapter 21

Just as expected, the day’s shipment arrives earlier than expected to their midway outpost. Clover sighs as Elm and Nora both point fingers at Vine and Ren, the two men far too weary to respond, for the cargo in the back has spilled and jostled around and must be sorted before recklessness causes an accident upon the road. Clover wants to make them clean it up; Qrow instantly refused, muttering, “Go inside, fill in the reports. We’ll clean it. Idiots.”

While the others explore the guard station for the first time since it was built, Clover climbs into the back of the truck, shaking his head at the toppled crates and scattered boxes. He pities Ren and Vine more than anything; that is why he shall let it go, but just for the day. They do not have an infinite supply of Dust to lose any materials along the way.

Qrow climbs into the back of the truck with him, surveying the damage with such weary acceptance that Clover can only laugh, deep and throaty, chuckles rising from his belly and rumbling his very being. “You expected as much, too?”

The elder covers his face with his hands and groans. “She’s a great kid, I swear, I- ugh,” he sighs, absolutely defeated.

Clover smiles and pats his shoulder, for he knows that the children mean well- Qrow wouldn’t have protected them if they weren’t. Still, they have tasks to accomplish, and the children will be out soon, so he begins to lift each crate and pass them off the Qrow so the elder can restack them in an orderly fashion. The work is methodical, mindless; boxes righted by him, replaced by Qrow, rinse and repeat. Over time, these movements become normal, comfortable; they fall into a rhythm that ebbs and flows so seamlessly that he could probably close his eyes, were it not for the fact that some of the crates have opened slightly and upending a pile of fire-Dust upon his boots does not seem like the most efficient way to get the job done.

His mind does not have long to wander, however. Soon, he feels a slight touch upon his hand. That touch grows more and more insistent over time, the handover between the two slowing down little by little and Qrow places his fingers upon the back of Clover’s hands, dragging them up to grab the crates themselves.

When Clover realizes this, it takes all of his effort to bite back the feral grin that wants to manically grow upon his lips.

Once the final crate is righted, Qrow turns back, expecting another box; Clover is there, waiting for the open, anticipating hands which pause in surprise as the younger grabs hold. With a slow, smoldering smile curling the corners of his lips, eyes half-lidded and brow raised, Clover lifts up one of Qrow’s hands to his mouth, kissing scarred knuckles reverently. Shock is quickly overtaken by shy, rueful, affectionate chuckles, brows furrowing in sheepish adoration as Qrow murmurs, “Hey, now- the kids are still here.”

Clover rolls his eyes, leaning forward to quickly capture the elder’s lips before letting go. “Then we’d best make them get on their way, huh?” he winks, hopping out of the truck.

It is just in time, too- the four Huntsmen step out of the station just in time, having filled out their requisite paperwork. Judging by the embarrassed grins on Elm and Nora’s faces, and the key dangling from Vine’s hand, a scolding has also taken place. It is probably for the best.

Thankfully, Vine and Ren ferry the two rambunctious women into the truck and soon they are naught but a blip on the horizon, the road stretching off for miles. Clover watches their retreating figure until he can see them no longer, then immediately backpedals inside the station to find his partner.

Qrow sits upon a chair, leaning his chin upon his hands, watching Clover affectionately as he enters. “They’ll never change, will they?”

Clover softens, walking over and wrapping an arm around the elder’s shoulders. He presses a soft kiss upon Qrow’s temple, murmuring against his temple, “If all goes well, they’ll never have to.”

There is a tenderness- unspoken, tangible. Qrow leans upon Clover’s shoulder, tilting his face upwards, silent pleas shining in his eyes. Clover leans down, for he understands- they have a few more hours before the return trip arrives, and he is happy to enjoy a sweet embrace until then.


	22. Chapter 22

The moment their shift is done for the day, Clover allows his mask of calm professionalism to slip away, for he has been waiting all day for this- all day for a reward for his efforts, for maintaining distance, for providing nothing but companionship and lighthearted optimism amidst the electricity which crackles undeniably through the air. They cannot blame the Dust lamps for it.

Clover reported the day before, so it is Qrow’s turn, turning on the monitor and connecting the call to the logistics manager. Strangely enough, after their initial report, they are connected to James to check in additionally; the moment the call connects, James appears only to let out a weary sigh. “There was a mishap,” he explains, all resigned exasperation. “We’re sending some more soldiers and Knights out there for the night, so could you check in with them as well?”

“Why not just fly them over?”

“We also need to transport Dust for repairs, along with some specialized equipment. Teryxes have been spotted, so the skies are off-limit till dawn.”

Qrow and Clover both trade glances, their hearts falling apart in synchrony. James catches the look, misunderstanding it clearly as he adds, “I know that it isn’t ideal- the truck won’t be there for a few hours, at least- but we’ll cut short your shift by a day. You can return with them tomorrow morning, how’s that?”

For a moment, Clover wants to protest- their solitude is what he has been craving for so long- but as Qrow murmurs, “Brothers, yes, I want a hot shower,” his mind quickly backpedals, allowing him to smile and say, “Sure,” instead. James lets out a tiny smile of relief and nods, explaining what the situation is and how to check in with the coming Huntsmen.

Once everything is in order and the documents are prepared for those who shall be arriving in a few hours, Clover slumps over, resting his forehead against the terminal. “Well. That’s certainly not ideal.” Peeking over at Qrow, he flashes the elder a wry smile. “I guess your Semblance wins this round.”

Those words send a flash of stricken hurt up Qrow’s face which quickly morphs into guilt, but Clover is ready; he grabs the elder’s hand, squeezing it gently before bringing it up to Clover’s face, sliding it against the tabletop so he can rest his cheek within a callused, lean palm.

Qrow instantly softens. “We can…” He blushes, averting his gaze and clearing his throat, “continue after they’re done. It’s fine.” Then, panicked, he adds in a hurry, “Of course, if you want to only, I’m-“

Clover turns his cheek to kiss the inside of Qrow’s palm before laying back down, resting within the large hand. “Sounds like a plan,” he hums, winking.

Qrow swivels in his seat so that he is facing Clover properly, scooting to the edge of his chair to be nearer. Clover closes his eyes and smiles, feeling his heart melt as Qrow brings his other hand to Clover’s hair, fingers running through the short-cropped sides so carefully it feels like he is being _treasured_ beyond all measure. To think, Qrow would be taking the initiative to explore Clover whilst he is still awake, without cover of the night-

He is grateful for this guard shift. Perhaps he is the one who needed this touch most of all.

The hand not being used as a pillow explores Clover’s neck, his collarbones, his shoulders, tracing muscles in his built arms, the point of his elbow, the crease of fabric between his shoulder blades. It is tender, curious- new and dewy-eyed, fresh as if he has not held Clover all night and day otherwise. It is sweet. Clover could stay here until the truck arrives- he almost hopes they can.

Then, he feels Qrow’s thumb stroke his lower lip. It feels like a trigger for him, a switch that is flipped; his lips part before he is even aware of it, open, waiting. That thumb hesitates, then begins to probe, slowly slipping in.

Lazily, Clover opens up his eyes, looking up half-lidded at Qrow, finding red staring back at him in wonderment and surprise and awe. Then, he moves his tongue, his lips wrapping around the base, and he sucks.

The choked noise which escapes Qrow’s throat is incredible, the man’s breath catching as if he has been suffocated for years only to finally breath again. Clover pulls back with a pop, smiling lasciviously despite his growing urge to simply gather the other in his arms. “You’re not allowed to sound like that, you know. Not today.”

The blush only deepens upon pale skin, almond-shaped eyes growing impossibly, heart-shatteringly wide. “Wha-why?”

“Because.” He opens his mouth again. “It’s my turn to sound like that, isn’t it?”

And Qrow crumbles.


	23. Chapter 23

The crew going to Amity’s site to guard it for the evening make it to their outpost without delay. The paperwork is filled, and their rendezvous the next day is planned. Marrow and Harriet will be their relief; after guarding the colosseum for the night, they shall come back in the morning to replace Clover and Qrow in the midway checkpoint, leaving behind the foot soldiers who have joined them in the truck at Amity.

Harriet looks less than thrilled as she relays this fact, to which Clover can only laugh and reply, “Make sure you’ve got something to do so you don’t get too lonely- you don’t need to be attracting Grimm here.”

“Are there a lot around?”

He shrugs. “We haven’t actually had any encounters while we’ve been here.”

She raises a brow. “Really? I would’ve thought they’d attack two people stuck alone in a heartbeat.”

He winks at her. “You’ve just gotta think positively.”

She rolls her eyes and waves Marrow along, ensuring that everything is in place before they set off into the evening, chasing the waning sunlight to the horizon. Clover has never been so excited to get rid of his teammates in his life.

The moment they can finally say they are officially off-duty, Clover and Qrow both let out a long, weary sigh. Qrow chuckles ruefully at him. “Let’s get ready for bed?” he says, eyes barely staying open.

Clover beams, nodding, feeling himself heat up in anticipation. “Of course.” So, the duo takes turns in the rudimentary lavatory within the station, brushing their teeth and washing up before slipping into their many layers, ready to face another freezing night. The alarm is set with plenty of time to clean up and refresh the room with linens and supplies in the morning. Clover cranks up the heat generators once again, their soft orange-red glow the only source of light once Qrow flicks off the main switch, casting the room in a gentle, fiery hue.

As usual, Clover is the first to act; he pulls the elder down to sit upon the bed, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His heart falls as he takes stock of the situation, for he does not need to turn on the lights to see the elder’s exhaustion, plain as day upon his face; tonight is not the night to push him too far. Clover does not mind the wait, though, despite the pinpricks of disappointment.

“Tired?” he murmurs, placing a soft kiss at the corner of Qrow’s mouth, smiling involuntarily when he feels the man’s stubble prick his chin.

The elder watches him wide-eyed, and Clover cannot tell if he blushes thanks to the heat generators; however, as his fingers trace Qrow’s skin, he finds it burning hot to the touch. Qrow grins crookedly, brows furrowed in rueful want as he murmurs, “You know I won’t be able to sleep after that stunt today.”

“Which one?”

Qrow groans, eliciting a chuckle from Clover, one that warms their bellies and feeds their hearts; Clover can see his own joy and contentment mirrored in Qrow’s eyes, for they have somehow managed to find a dynamic between them that feels so natural that it is baffling to see how it has only been two days since they have crossed the final boundary separating them.

Still, Clover does not want to prolong this just as much as Qrow; he smiles, slipping off his first layer, then his second, then his third. He keeps his eyes locked with Qrow as each layer is removed, working slower and slower until he is practically stilled, his body shifting in slow motion, moving through honey. It takes all he has to bite back his smile as Qrow grows more and more agitated, more and more unnerved, waiting to see what Clover has planned.

 _Brothers,_ the things Clover has planned- but the majority of those would do well within Clover’s chambers. Not here.

So, he simply stops, raising the hem of his final layer, teasing the elder with a hint of skin painted coral in the lights. “You need something?” he teases.

Qrow sighs, leaning his head forward to rest against Clover’s stomach. “Who taught you to be such a brat, hm?” he said quietly.

Clover throws his head back and laughs, then leans down to capture Qrow in a long, slow kiss. “You like brats, though, don’t you?” Clover mumbles against his lips. As they move against one another, tasting like peppermint toothpaste and warmth, he grabs Qrow’s hands and slides them under his shirt and against his skin, shivering as callused fingertips explore his stomach. His mouth moves away, his nose resting against the elder’s as he grins, half-lidded and wanton, gently guiding Qrow by the wrists to slide his hands farther up Clover’s stomach to his ample, powerful chest.

Qrow’s hands freeze. Red eyes peer up at him anxiously, so sweet that Clover cannot help but lean back down and kiss his forehead overtop of dark hair. “I’m not going to break, Qrow,” he soothes. “In fact, I’d like to see you try.”

There is a tension there, a fear. Qrow is clearly so torn, so wary of how to proceed that it’s almost heart-wrenching- how a man so beautiful could have been so neglected, been so forced to hide his own desires, he will never know- but as Qrow debates and ruminates and worries, Clover simply uses Qrow’s hands to help slide the final shirt off his head.

He shivers. Despite the generators, it is still far too cold to be shirtless in this room; immediately, gooseflesh rises along his bare skin, hairs lifting, attempting to warm him up. He pays it no mind, though; his sole focus is on Qrow’s face as the man turns even darker, eyes locked on Clover’s chest, on pert flesh, on the two dark spots which contrast so perfectly against Clover’s tan torso.

Clover grins. It is so cold- he has the perfect excuse. Crawling onto the cot, he moves the sheets aside and leans back against the wall, patting his thighs. “Come.”

Obediently, Qrow listens, sliding clumsily onto Clover’s lap, moving to straddle him just as they had done that morning. Before he can sit, however, Clover simply gathers the elder in his arms, tangles their legs together so Qrow cannot move, and pulls the blankets up around them.

Qrow is baffled, staring up at him owlishly, for this is clearly not what he had expected. The sight is adorable, and Clover can only wish he had his Scroll with him. His memory shall have to do, unfortunately. Shrugging, he kisses Qrow again before moving to almost cradle the man, the elder’s face against his large chest.

Then, Clover simply closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall, and waits.

It does not take long. It begins with a suckle at his collarbone, teeth scraping tenderly, so afraid to hurt. Those lips trail downwards, leaving behind wet bruises, the colour purple in the gentle, fiery glow; Clover watches gooseflesh rise along the trail as cold air assaults his senses in Qrow’s wake. A nose brushes against his nipple, soon to be replaced by a tongue, tentative and unsure, flicking, explorative- Clover holds his breath as it brushes him again, once, twice, thrice, discovering the taste of his skin slowly. Clover sinks into the pillow behind his back, shivering every time that tongue retreats, leaving him shivering and sensitive and waiting, flesh pert, begging for more. Those lips always come back, however, and soon, Qrow has found a rhythm: open-mouthed heat, scratching teeth dragging across, inhaling, suckling; a sigh, breath hot for just a second before the icy Solitas air strikes; the brush of a nose, lips wrapping around, tugging, insistent; and then, a kiss. Repeated again and again, moving across his sternum to never leave one side unfulfilled, red eyes meeting his as he watches through thick lashes down the bridge of his nose, feeling his own need and want mount until he is almost desperate; but he does not move, does not ask, does not control. He is simply there to serve, to feed, and he is eaten happily until they are weary and their eyes droop close, Qrow’s face resting between Clover’s large, muscled breasts. Clover’s want is left untouched in the best way, for Qrow’s warmth presses into him so innocently that he cannot bear to ask for more.

There is time, and the sting from Qrow’s teeth upon his flesh lingers, and that is enough for now.


	24. Chapter 24

The handover of the station is straightforward, the trip back to Atlas Academy, uneventful. Qrow and Clover sit in the back of the truck while two engineers sit up front with the Atlesian Knight driving the vehicle; they are civilians, so the Huntsmen duo are happy to hide in the cargo hold. After all, no one can see the way their fingers intertwine, the way thumbs stroke skin, the way heads nestle against shoulders, in the cargo hold. No one can see Qrow finally demanding, finally reaching out, finally comfortable enough to initiate and show what he wants without Clover guiding him, and Clover cannot be prouder.

Once they have finally arrived back in Atlas, Clover reports to James on the setup of the station. He has to force himself to maintain a neutral smile as James announces that he and Qrow can have the rest of the day off, since they are originally only scheduled to return to missions the following afternoon, giving them a day to rest. “Don’t tell the Harriet though,” James laughs wryly. “She’s been dreading going out there.” Clover laughs, for he doubts it’s the tundra as much as it is being trapped with Marrow with her patience as thin as it is. Then, he beckons Qrow to leave James’ office with him.

It is only once they have left the office completely that Clover reaches out, grabbing Qrow’s hand gently. “Will you stay at my place? We have a whole day,” he murmurs, leaning his head close to the other Huntsman.

Qrow nods, a shine in his eyes which Clover has never seen before. It sets his heart alight.

So, the two make their way back to the barracks, taking back routes and fire escapes whenever possible to avoid the other Huntsmen and staff within the Academy. There is enough food in his own quarters to ensure that they can stay in his home as long as they want, and Qrow still has his kit with him, so they head straight to Clover’s place with little delay. The air crackles between them, their palms burning to the touch where they are connected even through Clover’s glove, and yet neither let go; they have been waiting for far too long for uninterrupted privacy that this chance is like a light breaking through the clouds at last, illuminating their goal, so close by Clover can almost taste it- almost taste Qrow.

The door closes behind them. Clothes are shed in a heartbeat, hands helping one another remove pins, buttons, laces, lips finding each other almost magnetically, barely pulling away to allow time to breathe, to allow space, for any space is already too much for them after the amount of longing that has been building up for so long. Jewelry and watches and Scrolls are discarded on his nightstand, ready to be cleaned up later, but for now they are merely hindrances, blocking access to flesh. More and more skin grows exposed in room, brightly lit thanks to sunlight streaming in through gauzy curtains hovering across tall windows, but no one has time to look, to absorb it anyways, so entranced in the feeling of finally, truly, being _together._

Qrow finally pulls back first, panting lightly, his breaths hitting Clover’s lips. “Let’s shower first?” he offers shyly.

Clover wants to protest, for he does not care either way- but Qrow has been shifting and complaining about the chill in his bones for days on the tundra, so he simply acquiesces, grabbing Qrow’s hand and guiding the man into the bathroom. The shower is turned on, steam filling the room too quickly for the ventilation to remove it, the air growing heavy and muggy in just a few moments.

There is one minute of silence between them, the only sounds filling the room the ventilation fan and the shower cascading against tiled walls. In that silence, Clover simply steps back, looking at Qrow; the elder’s hunched form makes him look so much smaller than he is, so much more unsure. Without a word, Clover grabs Qrow’s shoulders and gently guides him to straighten out his back, lifting the man’s chin until he is finally standing tall, despite the discomfort and fear lingering in crimson eyes.

Then, Clover pulls back, taking a look at the man standing before him. For the first time, he realizes that Qrow is actually the same height as him. It is startling; for so long, he has viewed the elder as something almost fragile, breakable, but here he is, broad-shouldered and bold and proud, and Clover feels his knees wobble involuntarily as he realizes that an Atlesian uniform- an Ace Ops uniform- would be _breathtaking_ upon his tall, lean, toned frame.

This is a man Clover would happily follow forever.

The water grows warm enough at last, and Clover guides Qrow inside, pressing kisses against bared wrists which are somehow even paler than the skin surrounding it, for he has rarely seen the elder without his rings and wristbands and watch. He leaves only half the lights on, allowing Qrow to relax in the shadows, for he knows that while the light does not bother him, being bare and exposed is still something which may set off the elder.

The first few minutes are quiet, peaceful. Clover and Qrow merely stand side by side under the hot spray, soap adding a clean, fresh scent to the humid air as they shampoo and condition and wash in the confining space that is not meant for two larger men. Clover wipes suds off Qrow’s face, laughing as the elder blushes further, despite his skin already growing rosy underneath the hot water. It is peaceful, quiet requests to pass soap or get out of the way eliciting chuckles and groans and more than one, “Why didn’t we just take turns, this would be so much easier-“

But as Qrow washes out his hair, his forehead finally free of dark strands as he pushes it all back, massaging his scalp, Clover takes the opportunity to run his washcloth over Qrow’s shoulders, his back, gently scrubbing despite the elder’s initial embarrassment. He works methodically, massaging the knots in tense muscles when he can, placing kisses along a pale nape as he works. He cannot see Qrow’s face, but he can see the tinge in his ears, and they burn just looking at them; for a brief moment, he reaches the cloth around a toned chest, trailing it down, finding with delight that the flush has begun to affect Qrow elsewhere, too.

He takes a deep breath. Steps back. Kneels. Waits.

When Qrow realizes at last that Clover is no longer moving, he turns around, a gasp slipping through his lips as he realizes what the younger is doing. Panic cross his features and he murmurs, “Clover, get up- you don’t need to, hey-“

“But I told you,” Clover replies, looking up at the breathtaking figure before him, watching as water hits a once-again hunched back and trails over the curves and planes of Qrow’s form perfectly. “It’s my turn, isn’t it? Start it off, c’mon. This won’t be the only time today, so you don’t have to worry about savouring it.”

“But-“

He reaches out, grabbing Qrow’s hands. “Look at me, Qrow,” he murmurs wryly, affection oozing from every pore. “I’m not exactly fragile. And,” he glances down, chuckling at his own desire, “I’m not exactly dreading it, either.” He kisses scarred knuckles. “Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

Qrow lets out a long, weary sigh. “But… you- I can’t just do whatever-“

“I’m a soldier,” Clover reminds him. “I like following orders, but I’ve been giving them for far too long.”

That unspoken permission is what destroys Qrow at last, accompanied with one singular action from Clover which takes Qrow’s breath away fully.

He opens his mouth, tongue lolling forward, closing his eyes.

When hands finally release his own, he sighs, contented as they find his face, brushing his wet hair back, winding through until they grip the back of his head, holding him still. Clover relaxes, releasing the tension that keeps him upright until he is fluid, compliant, breathing in through his nose as he waits.

And then, flesh and heat and _Qrow_ lands upon his tongue, and he drops his jaw as far as it can go.

The movements are shy at first, probing, careful to avoid pushing too far too quickly. He melts at the tenderness with every action, and he lifts his hands and opens his eyes, his unspoken plea resonating through the steam-filled air. Crimson eyes widen further and nod, giving him the freedom to reach his hands around, placing them against firm muscle, toned curves, squeezing, kneading, relishing in the shivers and bucks that every touch elicits. And then, he grabs, and he pulls it all in, swallowing until his nose is buried in wet curls. He tries to inhale, catching the scent of musk and soap and clean skin before he swallows again and no air passes any longer.

With the steam and the heat and the humidity, he feels his head lightening the longer he stays there, feeling fingers curl into his hair and pull, claw, desperate and keening and wanton as gasps echo overtop of water tinkling across porcelain and tile, resonating in the small room with such force that he feels his own desire jump, aching for contact. He leans his body forward, pressing his chest flush against trembling knees as he swallows and swallows and swallows, humming with whatever air is left in his achingly-empty lungs. His own heat brushes against trembling shins and he coughs into his moans, snot running as his lungs lose the last bit of air they retain, his fingers losing their grip as the world goes grey for one blissfully heady moment.

Finally, he is freed, the fingers caressing his scalp pulling him forcefully off, allowing him to snap back into consciousness; his lungs fill, his body shuddering, broad shoulders almost losing balance and knocking into the glass door of the tub. One hand reaches up to wipe his face, cleaning him of tears and snot and saliva which he is not even aware to have shed.

And then, as he opens his eyes again at last, mouth open and ready once more, it begins again; but this time, it is not gentle. He does need to encourage the closeness, for suddenly, the motion is rough, fast, too quick to even comprehend; his teeth scrape skin on accident, but he does not even notice, for all he can feel is the fact that his heart pounds in his chest louder than it ever has before, adrenaline coursing through him, sending him on a high so powerful he can no longer think as flesh parts his throat, diving deeper, deeper, deeper, until his nerves start sending him false signals, until it feels as if his stomach should be filling up with every thrust. It is painful- it is cloying- his head bobbing back and forth without his input, the hands holding him in place tensing and massaging, the voice accompanying each motion growing more and more desperate. For a moment, he opens his eyes, only to see defined muscles spasm underneath a trail of hair leading down at his eye level, and he braces himself for the final rush as the motions hurry, hurry, hurry-

And then, his throat burns as he swallows it all, his mind going completely blank, the world going dark as his lungs give up and his heart stops and he is floating in nothing.

Then, he is back, coughing, feeling water from the shower slip over a shoulder and land in his nose as he gasps for air, conscious in the world of the living once again; heat is torn away from his wanting mouth, liquid which has been spilling down his bruised, abused throat now landing upon his face, stinging in his eyes. He closes his eyelids and waits, shuddering as he feels himself come down from a high he had not even known he had reached, but the stickiness on hair-covered shins is evidence enough, his fingers trailing along his mess in vague wonderment.

Finally, the body which has lorded over him collapses, hands untangling themselves from his hair in favour of cupping his cheeks, a washcloth wiping his face as gasping whispers of, “Oh my god- Clover- I can’t believe- gods, how- you-“ ring in his ear.

Clover finally opens his eyes as the cloth wipes away the evidence from his face, and he holds open his mouth again, then swallows. The rest is consumed. He is dizzy, but he is sated- and as he sees the heat and _affection_ in the elder’s eyes, he knows that the dizziness shall not fade, and he does not mind.


	25. Chapter 25

To say that he guides the other man would be a lie; hands intertwine, equally wanton and insistent, equally off-balance and heady and drugged after the euphoric high in steam-filled walls. They scrabble at towels and dry each other off, the motions sluggish and tender despite burning heat filling every inch of space between them; there is no reason to get dressed, so they merely draw the blinds and provide themselves some relief from the blinding daylight outside, creating some privacy in this room located high within Atlas Academy. They do not need to be rushed, do not need to be hurried. They have so much time.

Eventually, as he runs a thick towel over dark hair, crimson eyes look up at him, and all he can do is freeze in place in fear for those eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, nose slowly turning pink. He asks what is wrong silently, cupping a stubble-covered cheek, stroking under-eye bags which never seem to fade.

The tiny mouth opens, closes, opens again, searching for words which do not come. He waits. He shall always wait, shall never push- unless asked to, of course. Then, he will push until the other shatters, and then shall happily put those pieces back together again, repeating those actions as many times as required-

That shall not happen today, however. Finally, the elder takes in a deep breath; Qrow whispers, voice so close to cracking that it shatters Clover’s heart, “I just- I don’t know how- I haven’t done this with anyone in so long.” He flushes, hanging his head low. “I… I’m pathetic, I shouldn’t-“

For a moment, Clover cannot breathe, body chilling to the core as he truly listens to Qrow stutter, talking himself in circles.

Without a word, he stands, tossing the towel over the back of the nearest chair. Then, he leads Qrow to sit down on the edge of the bed, straddles his waist, and leans in.

“In that case, thank you for choosing me,” he murmurs with a smile, melding his chest flush against Qrow’s, feeling pert flesh brush and shiver as he finally leans in to kiss this vulnerable, lonely creature.

He can feel the way Qrow smiles against his lips, can feel the way his body temperature rises, can feel that cool touch tracing Clover’s built body as he hovers above the elder. He can feel the way Qrow’s breath hitches as Clover finally sinks his hips lower, pressing his length against Qrow’s, feeling their bodies hitch and buck in tandem. They are not looking for release; they simply want to feel, and as Qrow wraps his arms around Clover’s waist and begins to play callused fingertips against the contours of his sculpted back, all Clover can do is let himself drown in the sensation, because for what feels like the first time in his life, he is not scared of crushing his partner; he knows Qrow will hold him up as he wraps his legs around the leaner man’s hips and rocks forward until their heat is captured between defined abdomens and they are slick with lust once again. Their mouths never part, happy to explore, to enjoy this tender quiet before it begins again. Clover cannot wait to see what this next round shall bring.


	26. Chapter 26

If he had been told weeks ago that he would ever submit himself to anyone, Clover would have called it a farce. He hadn’t quite expected this to be how it was going to go with Qrow- it’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to submit to anyone this way- and yet, he finds that he is alright with that.

His hands find purchase in Qrow’s hair, his lips and nose buried between long, feathery strands that shimmer in the faint light streaming in through the curtains and blinds. It gives him something to hold onto, something with which he can ground himself, as below the neck, Qrow completely brings him undone. Clover has never felt so small, so vulnerable, as when Qrow’s lips latch onto his chest, teeth tugging and insistent as fingers move to massage, knead, squeeze flesh; it is almost too much when long digits trace patterns, words of love and affirmation and desire, into his carved back, sliding downwards until they cup him truly, lifting him up and readjusting him so he is splayed, exposed to creeping touches that move further and further down. His breath catches, stops and starts and stops again as he hears a bottle open, feels cold liquid pressing down, down, down, moving with a hesitance and restraint that is almost terrifying in its care. Then, he feels it- cold gel, those familiar fingers exploring uncharted territory for the elder- and everything seems to move in slow motion as puckered, swollen lips pull away from tender flesh, stubble brushing his chest as a sharp chin leans against him, the words whispered like a breath drowned out by a gale.

A tiny part of Clover sighs, for he has hoped for so long to get to do this to the elder; and yet, as he sees the hope and want, so keen and vibrant in Qrow’s eyes, he melts, rocking hips against digits which await him so patiently. There is no reason for him to not fulfill those desires later, after all. He smiles, watching the elder’s lips rise automatically, two faces mirroring one another in their lust and affection as he nods, placing a kiss between brows that are finally not furrowed for the first time in what feels like _years_ ; he whispers his response and relaxes, and Qrow draws him in tighter.

There is nothing more gentle in the world, Clover realizes slowly, than Qrow Branwen; the elder watches him dolefully, eyes too big and sweet and pure to be real as Clover feels himself stretch, a probing, careful touch moving so slowly that it almost feels static- that is, at least, until he feels it curl, and the awareness is so dizzying in itself that his eyes flutter shut, his cheek pressing back into Qrow’s soft hair as he feels lips returning to his chest. He scarcely breathe, scarcely _think,_ allowing himself to submit wholly to the elder’s ministrations as one finger becomes two, and he sinks further, taking Qrow in with breath bitten back behind his teeth. It is only when fingers pause, lips detaching once more, that he lets out the pressure building up in his lungs. “Breathe,” Qrow whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Those words are the gates to Clover’s true submission.

Letting out a long, shuddering gasp, he grabs Qrow’s cheeks, holding the man’s face up to look him in the eyes; then, he sinks lower, brushing his nose against the elder whilst he eats Qrow up, those fingers he has grown to adore disappearing deep within him. Red eyes crease with such warmth that Clover cannot help but giggle at the situation, giggle at his own muscular body completely wrapped around the leaner man; but Qrow is quick to stop it, using his free arm to wrap around Clover’s waist and pull him in so close that Clover can only whimper as he feels himself brushing up against Qrow’s chest. His waist fits perfectly in Qrow’s strong arm, and he can only shiver and sigh as every breath, every heartbeat, bounces his heat between his stomach and Qrow.

The elder smiles, all sweet, adoring gentleness. “Whatever you want,” he hums, kissing the underside of Clover’s clean-shaven jaw. “Move however you want.”

Clover can only grin back, fighting back his headiness for long enough to breathe, “I should say the same to you.”

And they both smile, their laughter growing and growing until they shake from their bellies to their shoulders, heads pressed against one another as they allow the moment to sink in- so pure, so untarnished. Then, Qrow begins to move his fingers back out, a third joining the fray as he murmurs against Clover’s skin, “You feel…”

Clover shudders and gasps as he is filled even deeper than before, his own heat trembling- he can feel himself making a mess against the elder’s stomach, although it is clear Qrow does not care. “Heavenly? Amazing?” he manages to joke, despite it all.

To that, Qrow simply leans his cheek against Clover’s bicep, looking up at him ruefully. “…safe,” the elder admits at last. “Warm.” He does not give voice to the last word, but his lips move and Clover is awestruck.

_Perfect._

And then, Qrow begins to move in earnest.

Clover’s world begins to spin as he feels himself be filled up faster and faster, long, callused fingertips sliding, stretching, widening, splaying out within him, moving deeper than anyone has gone before; they brush and prod until he is trembling, the only sounds coming out of his mouth gasping prayers to the heavens for these motions to never stop, for the elder’s fingers have managed to find exactly where to push for his entire body to _crumble._ He shudders and bucks, feeling himself thrust against Qrow’s stomach, chest- the elder does not care, even being so bold to pull away for a moment from his aching, sensitive chest in favour of swallowing him whole for just a moment, eliciting the most keening cry Clover has ever released in his life. He cannot help it, though- cannot hold back his voice, his movements, his desire, as he is released, the elder’s thin lips shining with Clover, then cleaned off with a pink tongue that he longs to feel against him once again. He whimpers as fingers grow merciless, pulling him apart, pulling him to naught but bones and flesh and nerves all begging for more, for _Qrow._

He looks down, bleary eyes barely able to process light as the touch grows faster, curling and flexing within him so incessantly he cannot breathe; but as he looks down, it is not lust which takes his breath away, for Qrow has the most brilliant, tender smile he has ever seen in his _life_ shining upon his face, illuminating the entire room to the ends of Remnant and back. And then, Clover shudders, for it is in this moment, as his own headiness reaches its peak and his eyes are blinded with arcs of lightning, heat coursing through his veins, that he is suddenly struck by the realization that no one has ever done this to him before. He has been entered before, yes; he has been fucked thoroughly in the past, and he does not regret those experiences. But no one has ever sat him on their lap and pulled him to pieces so methodically like this, with so much love and affection glimmering in crimson eyes-

His breath catches in his throat, and he swallows it down. The knot in his throat climbs back up, refusing to stay down, refusing to stay hidden- without warning, the cry that slips past his lips is not one of desire, but of garbled want and confusion and gratitude, coming out in a pitch that would have made him hide in shame were he not drunk off of Qrow’s touch.

Fingers slip out of him when he is finally able to breathe once more, wiped on a towel and then brought to cradle the back of his head. There are no words as Qrow holds his collapsing body against him, tucking Clover under his chin as Clover continues to buck and shiver, his own skin growing into more and more of a sticky mess with just the mere, phantom sensation of Qrow’s tongue still lingering within him, for he is too empty, no longer remembering what is was like to be without.

Strong arms scoop him up, and Clover finds himself lifted like a mere babe for the first time since he was a child; they lay him, still trembling in his own daze, upon the bed, a towel wiping away the mess whilst fingers brush his damp, sweat-streaked hair out of his eyes.

“You ready?” Qrow asks gently.

Clover can only swallow and smile. “Whenever- and however- you want.”

Crimson darkens. Clover is prepared.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post this on an earlier chapter, but follow me on Tumblr now [here](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/) for updates and podfic releases and whatnot.

He does not know what compels him to do so, but as he is laid back, that tall, lean body sliding his knees apart, sliding between and filling up his view, Clover finds his eyes drawn upwards to flushed, panting cheeks, eyes which glisten and shimmer like rubies in the afternoon light, lips which are bruised and pink enough to match dusky nubs upon curved muscles. This is truly happening. He is here, and Qrow will take him.

Before he realizes it, his hand reaches downwards, gently grabbing hold of cool, throbbing flesh which has already been slicked and prepared, his touch so light that Qrow can only gasp, eyes rolling shut until they focus upon him once again. “Give me a second,” is the croaking, yet fond answer.

Clover does not respond. He merely guides his finger up to the tip, shivering as he remembers how each groove and bump and ridge under his fingertips feels upon his tongue, down his throat; then, he seeks out the divot, scratching short nails lightly across aching heat before pressing _down._

His fingertip enters- just slightly. He is warm.

The garbled cry, guttural and broken from Qrow’s stomach, is enough to bring Clover back up again, and he slowly pulls his finger back, stroking the entrance one last time, marking down the look of breathless shock on Qrow’s face for later.

The elder trembles, his neck tensed, tendons and muscles straining, jaw clenched shut as he fights back his release. “You- brothers, you can’t _do that-“_

“You’re right,” Clover mumbles, still unable to truly enunciate after his own disassembly. “Not yet.”

Then, he guides Qrow to him and sighs, sinking into the bed, knees spread. Clumsily, he grabs a pillow from near the headboard and lays it under his hips, leaving himself open, exposed, vulnerable.

He smiles.

Qrow swallows.

And then, it begins.


	28. Chapter 28

There is something utterly surreal about being stretched, pulled apart, eased into; the movements are slow, gentle hands supporting his bent knees while he throws his hands back over the pillow, focused on nothing but the strange sensation of suddenly being so _full._ All he can do is focus on breathing, on relaxing every muscle in his body, turning himself into putty for the elder to sculpt with his hands, his heat- grip on his calves, stroking down hair-spotted skin to grab onto his ankle, so tight that he knows if it were not for his Aura, the marks would last well past the next morning.

He almost wishes he were out of Aura, he realizes. He would like to have these marks stay on him, for just a little bit longer. He wants to be marked; he’s always liked belonging to something, after all.

But then, a quiet sigh slips through parted lips above him as he feels hips finally, _finally,_ pressing against his own skin, those lips turning to place open-mouthed kisses against his calves as they both shift and shudder and wait for this feeling to become more familiar, for their bodies to grow accustomed, for Clover to mold Qrow into his shape and vice versa so that they fit against and into each other perfectly forever. For a moment, Clover longs to tell him to move, to begin, to lose himself in his own pleasure so that Clover can watch, the front-row audience member to Qrow’s undoing; he does not say that, though. Qrow requires patience and care, and so Clover waits, merely bringing his hands up to stroke tense muscles in broad shoulders, rubbing circles on a protruding collarbone, wiping sweat off a flushed cheek.

It is incredible, the way that Qrow melts and nuzzles into his hands even as he is taking Clover. Clover swallows thickly. Apparently, this quirk of Qrow’s will never change, and he is more than grateful for that.

And then, Qrow begins to move, and Clover can no longer breathe.

It is slow, creeping, pulling flesh as Clover’s body refuses to let Qrow go- wanting, begging for more without a word. There is a glaze which begins to take over Qrow’s eyes, red growing hidden under drooping lashes as lust takes over and the rhythm begins. The first few pulls are careful, slow, measured- always hesitant, always Qrow- but as he shifts and Clover squeaks and the world turns to static for one blinding moment, Qrow buckles down, propping one ankle upon his shoulder whilst his body begins to move in tandem with Clover’s, a tug-of-war that neither man wants to win, for they are both torn between movement and friction and heat, and the desire to knit together so closely they are interwoven forever.

The former desire wins out, and Clover finds himself reaching up, arms open. There is no more trepidation; Qrow falls into those arms instantly, guiding Clover’s body to curl until his own juices drip and spill upwards to his chest. He does not mind, for Qrow is there, his lips parted, that pink tongue waiting; he cleans Clover’s chest, then moves up to his mouth, and Clover melts, holding the other man close as hips buck and thrust into him, the movement striking him perfectly every single time. Qrow’s hands land upon his chest, the additional sensation stealing away whatever breath has not already been snatched by Qrow’s mouth, his lungs aching for air but unable to ask for it, so desperate to be connected to Qrow for as long as possible.

This continues, stopping and starting to breath, kisses landing upon his throat and eyelids and forehead and nose while he catches his breath every time he grows too dizzy, too overwhelmed, for Qrow is a terrifyingly capable Huntsman and his movements are far too precise; Clover sees stars and feels himself stretching, stretching, stretching, until the very thought of being empty fills him with fear.

Finally, Qrow shudders, whispering, “I’m close-“

Without a word, Clover kisses him, locking his ankles around strong, narrow hips, holding Qrow as deeply as he can while he clenches and shifts and bucks against Qrow’s hand pushing Clover against his own chest lovingly. Qrow resists for just a moment before he realizes how firm Clover is in his hold, so he simply smiles, pressing himself flush as he comes undone within Clover’s belly.

The view is breathtaking, eyes rolling and lips curling into a mix of a snarl and a wordless gasp; it only grows with how Qrow swells slightly, stiffens, his movements growing more and more ragged and desperate, throwing himself into Clover so sweetly that Clover cannot breathe, until he crumbles and gasps and falls apart. Clover gasps and cries against Qrow’s mouth as he feels hot, wet heat hitting exactly where it needs to, robbing him of all thought until he is _gone_.

When breath finally enters his lungs again, mind snapping back into focus, eyes finally able to pick out shapes and colours and detail beyond just _red_ , all he can feel is Qrow’s hand and Qrow’s lips and wetness across his stomach, chest, chin. He licks his lips. It takes a moment to understand the flavour, and he can only flush and laugh in stuttering chuckles as Qrow wipes his cheeks with his thumbs, his lips, his tongue.

Qrow moves to exit.

“Stay.”

Qrow pauses.

“Just a little while.”

“But-“

With trembling arms, he wraps his quivering touch around Qrow’s shoulders, holding the other man close. “You belong here,” he croaks into the man’s ear.

The other man sighs, relenting, his arms winding around Clover’s shoulders, holding the back of the man’s head close. Clover allows himself to be cradled, panting and sighing and shivering in the elder’s arms. Gentle pecks litter the side of his neck, his shoulder, behind his ear, as Qrow grows soft, pliant, eventually pulling away in favour of removing the pillow from under Clover’s hips, allowing him to lie down properly.

Clover shivers, feeling Qrow’s heat drip out of him. He is far too empty now, his body begging to be filled yet again. He doesn’t mind, though- simply smiling, he leans his head back into the pillow, tension easing, for his Aura is already beginning its work to heal his aching bones.

At least his body will remember Qrow’s shape. His Aura can never erase that- he will remember it in his flesh forever.


	29. Chapter 29

He wonders when it was last that he was held like this.

It is the first time that he has truly noticed Qrow’s seniority over him, though. That is certain; he has never truly noticed just how much experience lies within Qrow’s touch, but there is an air about the elder now, as they sit basking in the sun’s rays shimmering through breezy white curtains. Clover’s arm rests loosely around Qrow’s waist as they lie back, panting and recovering from what they have done- his head laid tenderly upon Qrow’s breast, feeling the elder’s arm wrap around his neck so long fingers can brush his hair. Those fingers have practice which Clover realizes he has never had, for this kind of simple intimacy- no need for skin-to-skin, not pressing or scratching or begging, merely stroking sweat-streaked strands back and out of his face- is new, foreign; he knows that he himself has tried to be this gentle with Qrow, and that the elder has never really done the same to him. Not to his face, at least- not while awake. And yet, he looks utterly at peace, utterly contented, as if nothing in these practiced motions which are slowly but surely soothing Clover’s very soul is new to Qrow.

For a moment, his heart seizes. To whom else had Qrow also done this?

The thought is fleeting, and he finds himself almost chuckling once it has passed. They are not children, and Qrow is older than he. Of course the man has had people in his life with whom he would lay quietly, enjoying the silence, watching specks of dust floating through the air, illuminated by rays of sunlight. Of course Clover is not the only one who has ever loved Qrow like this.

All that matters is that they’re here now, and Clover is the one in Qrow’s arms.

“You okay, boy scout?” Qrow murmurs, looking down at Clover fondly.

Clover can only grin back, turning to place a chaste kiss upon a muscled chest. “Of course. I can handle whatever heat you throw at me,” he teases with a wink.

There is no embarrassment, no owlish surprise on Qrow’s face- only a rueful chuckle spilling from sweet lips, fondness dripping from every pore. “I got it, little Atlesian brat,” he groans.

The way that Qrow no longer reacts is both absolutely heartwarming and crushing for Clover. He quite enjoys seeing the flush on Qrow’s cheeks, after all.

So, without a word, Clover reaches up to cup Qrow’s cheek. The man leans into the touch automatically, face fitting into Clover’s palm as if drawn by magnetism- a perfect fit. Lips meet, slow and sensual and adoring as he winds his other arm around the back of Qrow’s head.

Then, he pulls the other man tight against him, grins against his lips, and rolls Qrow on top of him.

Now, Qrow blushes and stumbles, confused as he pulls away, finding himself straddling Clover. “Wha-what are-“

“You thought were we done for the day?” Clover says, pointing to the analog clock affixed atop the wall. “It’s still so early. We’ve got plenty of time left today.”

The flush on Qrow’s cheeks is delightful- scarlet radiating across pale skin, almost as if the colour in his eyes is leeching downwards, watercolours spilling and spreading across the pure canvas of his skin.

Qrow is beautiful.

The elder glances down at Clover, further, then back up to Clover’s eyes, smile growing sheepish, shy. “I- I haven’t for-“

“Neither have I, and I think we both can agree that it turned out… _fairly_ well,” Clover teases.

The deadpan look on Qrow’s face is worth the light joke, but Qrow sighs, placing his hands upon Clover’s abdomen to hold himself up. “You… really want…?”

Clover is not lying as he whispers, “I just want _you._ ”

The elder leans down, pressing himself flush onto Clover’s sturdy frame, the tips of their noses brushing. “…okay.”

“And you’re okay with me?”

“Brothers, Clover,” Qrow chuckles, placing a kiss at the corner of Clover’s mouth so tenderly Clover’s heart stops beating for a moment, “as long as you’ll have me.”

They stay like that, for just a little while longer. Their bodies fit perfectly, after all.


	30. Chapter 30

“Clover- c’mon-“

“What is it, Qrow?”

Red eyes burn with humiliation and bliss, torn and broken gasps spilling from thin lips unbidden. “Don’t- _Clover-“_

Clover merely grins, pressing a kiss against a defined shoulder blade, upon two little freckles on protruding vertebrae. “I won’t know until you tell me,” he coos, his arm wrapped around Qrow’s waist squeezing slightly. Fingers trace playfully across a quivering abdomen while his other hand focuses upon the heat wrapped around his fingers; he moves, slick digits stretching and stretching and stretching, joints curling and fingertips stroking, leaving Qrow gasping as he clutches the pillow under his collapsed torso.

Finally, Qrow looks back over his shoulder, glaring and desperate after so much focus put on preparation. “Please, Clover,” he rasps, voice hitching slightly, face flushed. Unshed tears linger in his eyes.

Immediately, Clover leans forward, cradling Qrow’s face in his free hand and kissing him gently. “Okay.” And so, he moves behind Qrow, waits for the other man to steady himself, and lines up.

This sight- Qrow on his hands and knees, watching him in a daze over his shoulder, his broad, rippling back tense with eager anticipation, his body open and ready to swallow Clover whole- is perfect, and Clover has to take a breathless pause for a moment, carving it into his memory, for never before has he seen anything so desirable in his life.

He cannot leave Qrow waiting forever- he can scarcely believe he himself has been able to show this much restraint, for every inch of skin upon his body has been quivering with gooseflesh and sweat and needy anticipation for so long that it has become almost normal for him to be wanton. He prepares himself, wincing as cool gel covers sensitive flesh, before he grabs hold of bony hips, guiding himself forward. The initial press is gentle- careful, tender, as he bites back his own heady desire to plunge into the warmth which had coated his fingers for so long- until he can feel Qrow opening up, accepting him, and the heat of Qrow’s body finally warms him up, too.

Qrow’s gasping moans almost wreck him more than the fact that he is one with Qrow- that Qrow is _his._

Carefully, Clover runs a hand across Qrow’s back. “You okay?”

“’M fine,” the elder whispers.

Clover waits anyways, leaning down as he pushes slowly, further and further in, inch by inch until his aching need is truly enveloped at last by such heat he almost succumbs. The feeling is indescribable- he lets out his own blissful sigh as he begins pressing kisses down an arching spine, nipping and biting and sucking to distract from the feeling that he knows cannot be truly comfortable at the start.

He will not leave Qrow hanging for long, however. Once the elder’s tight shoulders relax slightly, growing more accustomed to Clover’s presence, he begins to move; each motion is calculating as he searches, carefully trying to pinpoint exactly where he-

Qrow cries out, shuddering. Clover smiles.

From there, it is but a blur. He knows Qrow will not last long; they are far too spent after a day of this to push him, to demand too much. Qrow’s face is already thrown back, brow scrunched together, mouth open, voice keening as Clover hits again, again, again- breaking Qrow’s mind slowly but surely as hips grow faster, skin grows slicker, before Qrow gives up and collapses, his shoulders falling onto the pillow as his arms give way.

Clover pauses. Not being able to see Qrow’s face- he doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to give himself pleasure if he cannot see the elder come undone, too.

So, without a word, he wraps his arms around Qrow’s chest and pulls the elder upright, back flush against Clover’s chest until the man is half-seated upon Clover’s lap. Then, he begins his motions again, and Qrow _crumbles._

The words tumbling from thin lips are practically unintelligible, but Clover knows the desperation, knows the desire and headiness that is spoken by the flush of Qrow’s skin, the tears spilling from his eyes as Clover thrusts hard enough to make the elder sob, mouth falling agape. Clover fills that mouth with his fingers, finding a messy tongue and spilling saliva, timing his motions with his hips, the only sound in the room Qrow’s whimpering cries and slapping flesh, so lewd it makes even Clover flush; it does not matter, though, for he reaches down, tracing his fingers over Qrow’s heat, and the man falls apart in his hands, a choked cry escaping as he freezes, clenching so tightly around Clover that he almost breaks, too. There is not much mess made upon Qrow’s stomach, for the elder is too spent, his high manifesting in trembling bones that turn to jelly as his sobs regain voice and strength, breath entering his lungs again as he comes down from his high, body collapsing into Clover’s arms.

There is a certain sense of pride in Clover- childish, haughty, but pride nonetheless- in the fact that he has taken Qrow so completely like this and still managed to hold out, to hold back. He was lucid to see the beauty of the elder, and that pride shall last forever.

He is prepared to slip out, to lay Qrow to rest so he can take care of himself whilst the elder calms down, when Qrow’s shaking hand reaches up, locking into Clover’s sweat-soaked hair. “Come,” he whispers.

Clover freezes. “Wh- what-?”

“Inside.” He smiles, barely lucid- canines bared in a sleepy, yet still wicked smile. “Fair, right?”

For a long moment, Clover can only swallow dryly. Then, he smiles, a laugh burbling up from within as he buries his face against Qrow’s nape.

Qrow’s cry- almost a scream, guttural and hoarse and shocked- is like a drug as Clover begins to move freely, abandoning all reason in order to reach his peak. He can feel the elder squirming in his grasp on instinct, sobbing as overstimulation and surprise and desire all fight for dominance within him as Clover moves, sinking in deeper, striking harder with every push, until they are melded together, a blur of flesh and skin and sweat and heaving breaths.

Clover releases, his body shuddering, curling, wrapping Qrow’s trembling form with his own muscular build as he drags Qrow onto his lap as far as he can, swelling within until they are trapped, locked together, his body clenching and seizing as blinding ecstasy rips through his entire core.

It was warm inside Qrow before- now, it _burns._

Exhausted, Clover rolls onto his side, dragging Qrow down with him as he deflates, relaxes, the tension easing from his muscles leaving him a boneless mass. Clumsily, he turns Qrow’s pained, tear-streaked face towards him, wiping off his cheeks and kissing half-opened, drunken eyelids. “Brothers, Qrow, god, I love you,” he whispers against pink skin. “You’re perfect, oh god-“

There are a few minutes of quietude, where Clover can only whisper praise and affirmation as he strokes Qrow’s hair, skin, cheeks, kissing every part of his head and neck and shoulders as he comes to terms with what Qrow had just allowed him to do. The sight of the elder’s tear-drenched face, sobbing and begging as Clover takes him, pushing him beyond his limits, destroying him-

He shall remember it for later. For now, all he can do is take care of his old crow.

Finally entering some state of lucidity, Qrow rasps out a chuckle, meeting Clover’s lips with his own briefly. “Mind pulling out, shamrock?” he laughs against his lips.

Flushing, Clover obeys, heat rushing through him in a dizzying wave as he sees himself drip down pale, toned thighs. It just seems too unreal, too good to be true.

Now freed, however, Qrow is content to turn over, to roll into Clover’s arms and kiss him properly, locking his ankles gently with Clover’s. “You’re not half-bad,” he croaks.

Clover rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I can improve with practice,” he says, still heady from every point of contact between their bodies.

Qrow’s eyes flutter shut. “I’m sure I can help with that,” he murmurs, nuzzling against Clover’s bicep. “I was a professor, y’know.”

“The best of the best, I’m sure,” Clover affirms, pulling Qrow tight, unable to hold back his own breathtaking smile as he watches Qrow fall asleep in his arms, utterly exhausted from it all.

They belong to each other, now. They will need to clean themselves up soon- but as Clover onehandedly sets an alarm on his Scroll for an hour later, he smiles, for a little nap will not hurt them; and if Qrow feels safe enough to collapse in his arms, covered in both of their messes and snot and tears, then Brothers be damned, Clover will cherish it.


	31. Chapter 31

The water is warm, and so is Qrow.

They sit, for both of them are far too exhausted to try and do anything ridiculous now; despite the rest their too-long nap has granted them, they are both still clearly spent from the vigor of the afternoon, of the previous few days. However, it is as Qrow winces easing into the hot bath which Clover has drawn that the silliness of the situation overtakes the younger, for they are two nearly-middle-aged men who should have long ago grown out of making love until they physically cannot breathe; and yet, the past week has been filled with nothing but. So, here they are, passing Clover’s generic shampoo and conditioner and soap between one another and groaning as their Auras shimmer across their skin, casting emerald and crimson hues in a dancing frenzy upon the wall as numerous bruises and bites are healed. Clover kneels to wash suds out of Qrow’s hair, and Qrow does the same, the two of them collapsing into wry, weary giggles as they both realize that they really should’ve used condoms, for cleaning is going to be a little more complicated than they thought.

It is clumsy and awkward, but they both manage to bite back their blushes and drain the tub, turning on the shower- although Qrow staunchly remains seated, pouting as the water strikes the back of his head. “If _someone_ wasn’t so damn _needy-_ “

“Then this would’ve been so much more efficient,” Clover agrees, clambering to his knees awkwardly. “Honestly, Qrow, you really should learn the Atlesian way of doing things-“

The light smack on his abdomen makes him laugh, but Qrow grumbles and creaks to his knees as well. Then, in the most embarrassing two minutes of his life, he and Qrow ensure the other is clean, suddenly feeling far too shy to be doing this under the lucidity that their adventures have left behind despite the fact that they have already well explored each other just hours before.

Yet, at the end of it all, the sun is just beginning to set and the room is completely aired out, leaving it the perfect frigid temperature for Clover to use his thickest duvets. Qrow clambers into bed without complaint, only moaning in annoyance when the blinds do not block out the light enough for the elder to properly collapse.

“Do you need me to fetch you a sleeping mask?” Clover titters mockingly.

The glare sent his way is adorable in its sleepiness. “Shaddup.”

Clover pauses, noticing a little tinge of pink blossoming upon his cheeks. Curiously, he slips into bed, turning onto his side to block the light from Qrow’s eyes. “What,” he whispers, leaning in a hairsbreadth away, “would you prefer I make it a proper blindfold?”

The flash of desire upon Qrow’s face is enough to send Clover’s mind racing, but he has little time to ponder it; Qrow simply rolls his eyes as he catches himself, pushing Clover’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” he mutters under his breath.

Clover laughs, drawing close. He shall explore that option later- he can think of a few ties in his closet which have not been put to use in years that would love to see the light of day again. “Would you prefer a late wake-up call or an early one?” he murmurs, looking at his Scroll.

“Pros and cons of each?”

“Pros for late- sleeping in.”

“Great. Cons?”

Clover places a kiss on his forehead. “We sleep, wake up, go to work.”

Qrow stares deadpan at him as he realizes what Clover is insinuating with their other option. “This… brothers, is this going to be my life now? Just scheduling… you?”

Clover grins, resting his arm across Qrow’s waist. “As long as you’ll have me,” he says. It is not a lie.

Qrow relents, rolling back, holding out an arm. Obediently, Clover crawls closer, sighing contentedly as long fingers twine with his hair, all comfort and gentle touch.

This, Clover decides as he closes his eyes with the setting sun, is bliss.


	32. Chapter 32

Clover does indeed like the rookies, but he’s getting a little tired of all of this.

The children who follow Qrow around are back and more loving than ever, which is fine in all aspects but one: Clover can no longer seem to find any time to be alone with the elder. For the past few days, he has been monopolized wholly by his nieces, and then after that, the other children, too. James has even been asking Qrow to chat and reminisce about days past, leaving Clover sitting in his room after work hours, waiting for messages on his Scroll to indicate that the elder was coming to be with him. Each day, he says he won’t for it is too late, or their mornings are too early, or Ruby and Yang want him to stay a little longer so Clover should sleep without him.

It is absolutely childish, and he knows this. It does not change the fact that he is still obscenely jealous of everyone else who has managed to take away Qrow’s attention from him.

A few days after their return to Atlas, Clover finds himself cutting cake for Ruby. Her birthday is coming up at the same time as her designation guard shift at the midway outpost upon the tundra, so Yang has organized a little get-together beforehand with cake and treats for the younger girl. It isn’t every day that they could find a reason to celebrate, after all.

Why Clover is in charge of cutting the cake, he doesn’t know. He does not mind the task; it is mindless, easy, and the laughter of the rookies and the Ace Ops and other students and staff of Atlas was ringing throughout the room they have commandeered for the little event, so Clover is more than happy to contribute to the atmosphere, even in this little way.

“Why are you cutting them so small? The rookies are little, but they can handle a _bit_ more sugar than that,” Qrow laughs, peering at Clover’s handiwork over his shoulder. His hand rests comfortably upon Clover’s waist, out of sight from the others.

Clover shrugs, biting back his own flush, his own urge to tease the elder. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks at the exit; if he took Qrow and dragged him off now, would anyone notice-

 _This is his niece’s birthday party,_ Clover sighs, reprimanding himself silently. _Calm down_.

Qrow is still waiting for a response, though, watching him with a hint of worry, so Clover merely hums, “It’s for you, not them.”

He can feel the look of bewilderment probing the back of his head as Qrow starts. “Wha- why?”

“Oh, you know.”

“I’m not following, boy scout.”

Clover grins, glancing over for a brief moment to wink at the elder, fighting back the urge to simply hold the man then and there the moment he sees that handsome face. “It’s just that for someone with so much confidence, you’ve sure got a small mouth, huh?”

The noise that rips from Qrow’s throat can only be called a squawk, so grating that Clover almost pauses to see if he has transformed into a bird to hide the blush that is undoubtedly overtaking pale skin. He resists that urge, however, continuing to cut the cake into small pieces, sliding each slice onto a plate for the rookies.

“Uncle Qrow, what’s wrong?” he hears Ruby ask, concern and curiosity mingling in her voice.

The elder coughs, clears his throat, sighs. “Nothing, kiddo,” he replies, almost glum.

Grinning wickedly, Clover hands her a plate and a fork, winking at Qrow, relishing in the way his cheeks light up just as brightly as Clover predicted. Qrow only glowers back, taking a plate of cake for himself. “I cannot _believe you!_ ” Qrow hisses, looking over to Ruby anxiously as the girl walks away.

Clover chuckles, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “You say that, but I’m not wrong.”

“Oh, it was _plenty_ big enough to-“

“Then prove it.”

The unspoken challenge is there, hanging palpably in the air, creating a pocket of stillness around them, the sounds of the party fading away for just a heartbeat as Qrow’s Adam’s apple bobs up, down, lips parting, eyes widening-

Clover hands a piece off to Nora, warning Ren silently with a raised brow to make sure it is the _only_ piece she gets. To Qrow, he adds, “If you like, we can take back some of this cake. Put those words to the test.”

Qrow’s crimson cheeks are almost neon. “We are in _front of-_ “

Innocently, Clover picks up a slice for himself, taking a bite, tongue sliding between the prongs of his fork sensually as he watches Qrow’s flustered reaction. No one notices- no one but Qrow, of course. “It’s not bad cake, but I’m sure I know something which tastes better-“

Qrow squeaks again and storms off, leaving Clover in stitches as he hands a piece of cake off to Harriet. Yet, when Qrow arrives at his room that evening, Clover knows that the elder isn’t angry.

Clover kept a piece of cake, too- it sits in his fridge, waiting. Qrow blushes again when he sees it, for he knows what awaits him.


	33. Chapter 33

His tongue delves as deep as it can go, and crimson eyes can only disappear in ecstasy. Clover knows that the wait has been worth it.

Qrow grimaces, his canines biting so hard into thin, pretty pink lips that a drop of scarlet begins to well up; the man is too distracted to focus his Aura on the wound, leaving himself vulnerable, blood slowly staining his lips and teeth as he gasps and writhes and moans, his feeble attempts to break free of Clover’s grasp getting him nowhere. Clover watches it, fixated as he props up Qrow’s curled body, holding his hips and legs up whilst his nose brushes against throbbing flesh, his lips meeting puckered skin, his tongue curling. He retreats for a moment, taking in a breath- licking lips, watching the elder squirm, fingertips idly tracing patterns into dark hair upon pale thighs before he dives back in, willingly giving up his oxygen once again in favour of tasting sweetness upon his tongue.

Qrow is better than the cake, he decides idly, seeing smears of red velvet crumbs still lingering upon the elder’s chest, a stark contrast to rosy, flushed skin. The crumbs cling to him, sticking to pearly fluid and cream cheese frosting, a veritable mess as it drips up his torso, melting and swimming with the burning heat under his skin. Clover shall clean him up later.

For now, he pops open a bottle, covering his fingers with cool gel; then, he allows his tongue to push in as far as he can go, lips gently sucking on trembling flesh which parts for him and him alone, before pulling away, allowing his fingers to enter, allowing his mouth to seek Qrow’s need.

The sweat which rolls down Qrow’s cheeks and forehead, mingling with saliva and burgeoning tears, is beautiful as Clover swallows him whole, fingers searching, twisting and curling, throat full. He could stay like this forever, he thinks as his own vision begins to swim. He knows he should pull back, should allow air to fill his lungs, should allow this to last as long as possible.

Yet, he finds that nothing is as perfect as the feeling of Qrow filling him up wholly, so he does not pull away, even as his fingers strike gold, the body underneath him growing stiff and limp and twisting in pleasure, even as flesh swells even further, blocking all airflow. He does not need air, he thinks. He just needs this.

And once Qrow has peaked, his back arching off the bed as he tightens and grows and explodes within and around Clover, Clover drinks greedily, for perhaps if he consumes enough, he’ll stop needing air entirely. All he’ll need is this, bittersweet, pouring down his throat as Qrow grunts and cries and gasps. That would be perfect.

When Qrow grows limp and weak in his arms, he lets the elder lie down at last, pulling his lips free with a pop, strands of saliva and Qrow pulling between his bruised lips and exhausted flesh. He swallows, watching the elder shudder and gasp and melt in the afterglow for a moment before allowing his nose to nuzzle into dark, soft curls, brushing up a coarse trail, tongue lapping up scattered crumbs and sweat and frosting until he hovers above Qrow properly. Then, he kisses the other man, sharing the taste- the sweetness, the tang.

Qrow is beet-red as he realizes what is being done. He does not pull away, though; his trembling hands merely find Clover’s, bringing Clover up to cup Qrow’s cheek.

Clover’s touch is his reward, Clover realizes, eyes widening, heart clenching, watching the elder nuzzle into Clover’s palm as his mouth opens, awaiting whatever Clover wants to give him.

That realization is what undoes Clover. He makes a mess with a silent, wordless cry, covering himself and Qrow, unable to hold it any longer. Clover is Qrow’s reward.

His need does not dissipate, however. He simply smiles, scooping up scalding liquid from Qrow’s skin, bringing it up to the elder’s mouth. Without complaint, Qrow consumes, as long as Clover’s hand holds Qrow’s cheek.

It is a good thing he has booked them in for a mission later the following morning. They have a long night ahead of them.


	34. Chapter 34

He feels almost guilty, doing this.

Just as Qrow knows exactly how to bring Clover to his knees, how to make him succumb and crumble- Qrow’s fingers stroking his lips makes him lose his need for oxygen without fail, every single time- Clover now understands exactly how to make Qrow forget his insecurities, his worries, his fears.

That is how he finds himself lying back, leaning against rumpled pillows and sweat-soaked bedsheets, as Qrow’s hands grip his shoulders for balance while he sinks himself further down onto Clover, until all they can feel is the other, their bodies connected so intimately that Clover cannot help but wonder whether they are two halves split in the cosmos, finally intertwined the way they were always meant to be. Qrow moves without shame, no longer fearing striking too hard or rushing too quickly, for he has finally internalized that Clover cannot be broken without Qrow’s desire to see him so; and, Clover’s hand cups Qrow’s cheek, thumb trailing underneath crimson eyes, down gaunt cheeks, across a stubble-lined chin, delving into his mouth. Qrow opens, pliant and needy and wanton without restraint as long as that hand is there- as long as reassurance is present that Clover will catch him when he falls.

Clover will always catch him. Qrow has no need to fear. Not anymore.

So, Qrow inches his way down until he cannot any further, their thighs pressed into one another, bodies slick with sweat. The elder already whimpers, liquid dribbling from his mouth, his tip; needy hands claw, digging into Clover’s shoulders as he adjusts, catching his breath, hovering over Clover with trembling arms.

Clover merely strokes his face gently, his other hand running down the elder’s body, fingers tapping and scratching and brushing and pressing, running up and along veins and sensitive skin as he relishes in the way Qrow tightens with every intimate touch.

He wants to move.

He almost does.

And then, one of those hands gripping his shoulders moves down to cup his swollen chest, already bruised and sore from Qrow’s ministrations during their brief respite; those fingers grab, squeeze, pull, before trailing back up his sternum, collarbone, Adam’s apple, chin, to his lips.

He does not move, aside from the parting of his lips, the rolling back of his eyes. He knows what the elder wants.

He is going to be used, and he cannot wait.

So, as Qrow begins to move, his fingers moving into Clover’s mouth in time with hips that consume, shiver, swallow greedily until Clover can give no more, moving faster and slower and never _enough_ for Clover to ever truly crumble, Clover stays his own hips, his own desires, merely focusing on wrapping his hand exploring that lean, heavy, muscled body around Qrow’s heat, gradually applying more and more pressure at the base, twining with dark curls, fingers tightening. Qrow squeezes in response, and all Clover can do is hold on as the elder moves exactly how he wants, completely entrenched in his own pleasure, head thrown back, chin and neck exposed, mouth agape.

His cheek never leaves Clover’s hand, though. Never.

Finally, when he feels Qrow’s body tiring, too focused on trembling and shivering as he uses Clover to strike himself perfectly each time, his flesh pulsing with need within Clover’s restrictive grasp, fingers slip out of Clover’s mouth, landing back upon broad shoulders, and Clover looks up at him again, waiting for permission.

“Please,” Qrow whispers.

Without a word, Clover releases Qrow, grabbing onto his hips, lifting the man higher, and _moving._

He dives in without restraint, body having already memorized exactly where to assault the elder, leaving naught but a silent scream in Qrow’s throat. The released pressure causes the elder to collapse, his entire body twisted in blissful agony as his body stiffens, the heat and space growing so unbearable that Clover, too, can hold on no longer.

It is terrifying, just how much pleasure he derives from placing his palm flat against the trail of coarse hair leading up to a small navel as he releases, knowing that he is filling Qrow up; the very thought causes him to surge anew, body tightening, grip so fierce upon a bony hip that it would harm a lesser creature. Not Qrow, though. Qrow only groans, his own hand weakly catching his own mess as the last drops fall away before finding Clover’s hand, covering the younger with his palm, holding it pressed against his abdomen while Clover spills into him.

Absently, Clover realizes that he should go visit the medical ward one of these days- they will not always have the luxury of time to clean up after, so he shall invest in condoms and more lubricant and anything else Qrow desires to make it easiest for the elder. For now, however, he focuses on the way Qrow attempts to pull himself up once he is conscious and aware- how Qrow can’t, too weak and spent. He smiles, tenderly cupping and hoisting upwards, using his own failing strength to release himself from Qrow’s touch.

It is a dangerous game, for seeing himself drip slowly from puckering, needy flesh is dizzying. So, he only allows it for but a moment. Then, he lets the elder collapse onto him, holding his face, his waist, whispering words of praise and adoration into his ear, for Qrow is perfect, no one else can make him feel like this, he is beautiful, Clover has never felt his Semblance more than when Qrow is here-

By those words alone, Qrow seems to shiver and tremble again, and Clover realizes faintly that he is coming undone yet again, so wrapped up in Clover’s husky voice in his ear and his heartbeat pounding in time with Qrow’s that even without spilling another drop, he crumbles. Clover holds him through it all, kisses given freely upon dark, grey-streaked hair, on half-lidded eyes, on a mouth that has forgotten how to close, so drunk with sensation and stimulation.

Then, they rest. They are content for now.


	35. Chapter 35

The glint in Qrow’s eyes is terrifying. Clover loves it, although he does not visibly react, simply smiling as amicably as ever. He continues issuing orders and answering questions as if nothing is going on, as if Qrow isn’t watching his every move, pretending like he is still focused solely upon their mission. It is almost over, so Clover is not concerned. He can decode whatever it is that Qrow wants later.

He looks forward to it.

So, once the reports are finished and the rookies are gone and they are alone in Clover’s chambers once again (they had intended to go to Qrow’s, but after seeing Ruby lurking outside his door with her usual video game in hand, they had run back to Clover’s quarters, blushing and chuckling silently the entire way) Clover shuts the door behind them, allowing the tension to finally reach its breaking point between the two.

To Clover’s surprise, Qrow does not launch himself at the younger the way his eyes have been belying this entire day. Instead, he merely takes a seat at the coffee table by the window, crossing one ankle over his knee and slinging one arm behind the back of his chair, watching Clover carefully.

Clover glances over at him as he hangs up Kingfisher upon its hook and slips off his boots, raising an eyebrow at the man’s strange, nonchalant pose. “May I help you?” he murmurs wryly, winking at the elder.

Qrow gestures. “You owe me for last night, don’t you?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes, tugging off his gloves and laying them upon his dresser. “I don’t know, I’m sure _you’re_ the one who had way more fun, if I remember correctly.” Clover knows he does; he has never seen someone come so completely undone simply by his words, and he shall never forget it.

Much to his chagrin, Qrow does not react the way he would’ve liked; rather than flushing that delicate pearly pink, the elder simply watches, all cool, calm competence and sly, knowing, expectant smiles.

Clover frowns, pauses, grins. His eyes alight.

And then, he reaches down, flicks the rabbit’s foot hanging off his belt, and winds his fingers underneath the leather band.

Qrow watches.

An almost feral joy begins to well up in his chest, the man’s grin growing lascivious, bold; one-handedly, he undoes the clasp, pulling off the belt and letting it drop onto the bed. He has ideas for that belt later- they can keep it out, for now.

Buttons on his vest are next; he glides his fingers underneath the hem along the edge, trailing up to the bottom clasp. He undoes the first one; Qrow doesn’t respond. The second- Qrow raises a brow. The vest falls open, revealing the last layer between a defined abdomen and Qrow’s hungry gaze.

Rolling his eyes, Clover steps forward, wrapping his arms loosely around Qrow’s neck. “What next?” he breathes.

Qrow gestures vaguely at his ensemble. “Everything goes, right?”

For a moment, he wonders whether he should dance- whether he should move, fluid and seductive the way he imagines the elder will love, the way he himself has seen lovers dance for him in the past. The image makes him blush, for this is not what Clover is accustomed to, not at all; and yet, something holds him back, leaving him confident but straightforward in his motions, for he is not a spritely thing willowing in the wind… but Qrow wants him anyways.

He can do this his way. He knows the elder will enjoy it.

Clover lifts up the hem of his grey shirt, showing off the waistband of his slacks- allowing the vest to slip to the sides, barely hanging off his shoulders. It is with bated breath that he watches Qrow raise his hand, fingers so close to grabbing onto his slacks, so close to undoing the button, so close to tracing his skin-

Qrow merely points to the entire ensemble again. “Keep going.”

Groaning, Clover grabs hold of the hem of his undershirt, lifting it up until he can grasp it with his teeth; biting down, his fingers play, at home amidst valleys and ridges and puckered skin, pert and needy with anticipation, with longing- with the view of smoldering crimson eyes watching him.

Once his fingers have danced across tan skin, they finally brush against his waist- button, zipper, clasp all fall undone with movements so meticulous and careful that he cannot breathe, cannot stir, cannot break this unbearable silence that has somehow manifested within this place as Qrow’s eyes focus solely open him, waiting for his next move.

He gently nudges Qrow’s leg, causing the man to sit up, uncrossing his legs; Clover takes the chance in a heartbeat, sliding himself between bony knees and thick thighs, leaning against the edge of the chair, so close to Qrow that he can smell the man’s cologne without effort. Holding up his slacks, he finally allows them to drop, allows them to crumple, allows them to pool around his ankles and reveal bare flesh, his own aching need barely covered; already wanton, already begging for the heat of Qrow’s breath to grow closer. With anyone else, the dampness visible, shining faintly in the light, would’ve embarrassed him. With Qrow, he feels perfect.

Qrow does not fulfill his silent pleas, though, simply waiting for Clover to continue; so, off goes the underwear, leaving him with a dampening hem in his mouth and an open vest, his tip already begging for more, his entire body shivering as he now stands utterly exposed in the most ridiculous way.

And yet, the elder does not react, leaving him with only one choice. Clover grins, hands on the elder’s knees as he slides down to the floor, gasping slightly as he feels himself brush against the edge of the chair. The sound alights something within crimson eyes; then, he reaches over to his lapel, removing his clover brooch.

Qrow watches him curiously, not interrupting his motions, leaving Clover to unpin it before sliding it up to Qrow’s own lapel. Then, on his knees, he attaches the clasp onto Qrow’s vest, allows his own clothes to fall off his shoulders, and pulls his final shirt off in one smooth motion, leaving himself chilly and quivering and exposed on the floor in a puddle of clothing, his skin rosy and flush, desire begging for more.

Qrow reaches down, trailing callused fingertips up from dirty blonde and brown curls, tracing up veins and ridges with naught but a commanding, amused smile on his face; those fingers move further up, up, up, smearing liquid and want over flushed skin which points and begs and wants, until those fingers, already sticky and sweet, are upon Clover’s lips.

Every bone in his body melts away as that silent command is born, and Qrow stands at last, just for a moment- reaching over just far enough to grab the belt, discarded and waiting upon Clover’s bed. Clover does not fight it, nor does he fight when leather slips around his wrists.

Then, Qrow leaves him. He walks over to Clover’s closet. “Stay there. Eyes shut.”

Jade eyes close happily. He is content to wait. He does not know what is coming, but as he hears Qrow looking through his dress uniform, Clover smiles.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quickly growing to one of my most chaptered non-drabble fics, and I'm not sure what that says about my (literally pretty much entirely wholesome-aside-from-this-monstrosity) brand.

He cannot see anything, nor does he need to. Crimson shall look into the world for him, guide him, move him precisely where he needs to go. Crimson shall keep him safe.

He cannot speak. There is a part of him that realizes he can simply spit out cloth, freeing up his lungs to finally, properly breathe again. He doesn’t, though, for he knows that his body does not need air to live. Not right now.

He cannot move, even if he wants to- hands bound, one ankle gripped tight, his other leg trembling as he balances a wobbly knee precariously upon the edge of soft mattress and drenched sheets; his body is too weak, too fluid, too pliant to shift bones and muscle and muster up even a modicum of strength to move away. Then again, why would he want to?

Unless if he is told to. Then, he shall move.

For now, however, he simply allows himself to focus on sensation so disorienting that his head spins, his body twitching and shivering as fingertips alternate, attacking him softly from all directions- brushing up, down, across his shoulders, down his back, below his navel, stroking his wrists and smoothing away the crease in his brow and tapping on saliva-drenched cloth which mutes the screams and whimpers spilling with abandon from his throat, all as he is filled without mercy.

The hand which twines into his hair, holding his head up and pulling, deliciously painful and bitter, drops down, fingers playing upon his neck, touch so feathery-light it almost feels like a different person in comparison to the merciless rutting, the sensation of being so empty, so full, flesh dripping and open, begging to be filled properly, forever and always; that hand trails across his shoulders, wrapping around, dipping into the hollow of his collarbone, the heat transferred from each graze almost enough to rival the burning, raw, sweat-slicked, lust-fueled movements of hips snapping against his own, rippling flesh never missing a beat in the dance he is led in. A groan slips from his lips, hoarse and wanton as those fingers disappear, leaving him shivering and cold despite the inevitable movement that is so intense he can barely form coherent thought.

Then, they return- wrapping around his neck, sliding above and below his collarbone. His ankle is dropped and he falls roughly forward, but that grip is strengthened by another hand, ten digits holding his torso in place whilst his lower body succumbs to heat and pleasure and boneless submission.

The voice he loves so dearly murmurs in his ear, husky and dripping with desire, enough to nearly push him over the edge. “Hold your breath.”

He barely has enough time to gasp in a breath, forcing scant air into his lungs, before those fingers _squeeze._

The world goes dark. He tightens, his entire body flushed with adrenaline and fear and bliss and pure, unequivocal trust as his Aura attempts to numb the pain in his throat, but nothing is enough; nothing can dull the way he can suddenly feel every nerve within his skin tingling, his puckered opening clamping down, swallowing greedily, forcing aching heat to swell firmly within him, hips trembling against his.

Fingers relax. He gasps. Hips resume. Another squeeze.

This pattern continues, again and again and again until he is _broken,_ his entire form tumbling forward upon one heady breath, his entire world blacking out for one second before grey filters away at last, finally revealing pure, untouched pleasure ripping through his veins with such intensity that the cloth over his mouth is soaked.

He can feel liquid upon his face, shooting up to his chin, dripping down his neck. Even after it finishes, begins to cool against his burning skin, he remains there, twitching and shuddering.

His body is filled with heat, and he wishes for the nth time that he could feel every drop within him, too. Feeling the eventual withdraw, hearing the sigh of relief, tasting sweet, fresh air as cloth and leather are removed from hands, eyes, wrists… _that_ is perfect, however, a taste of freedom entering his lungs and bringing him such peace that he almost faints.

The hands which scoop him up and carry him to the bathtub do so without his awareness. When Clover finally grows cognizant of his surroundings, he is surrounding by water, between muscled thighs and bony knees, his back flush against a lean, defined chest, fingers massaging his scalp. Clover closes his eyes again once he sees crimson staring back tenderly, for he knows they still play. The blindfold may be gone, but he does not need to see. Qrow will keep him safe.


	37. Chapter 37

Hips flex, knees tremble, breath stutters. Legs cross, uncross, shift and shake and shamble to the main terminal every once in a while to punch in necessary access codes, pretending like nothing is going on.

Clover watches it all from across the room, his smile curling lasciviously, his heart warm, comforted by the fact that Qrow is barely holding on, hunched over not due to his posture but thanks to the crumbling of his willpower, the weakening of his restraint.

He can only imagine just how Qrow longs to cry out.

Unfortunately, he cannot, for Vine and Marrow work diligently at their own desks as they finish up monthly reports, leaving Qrow to suffer and shiver and struggle to remain still as Clover’s fingers push up the intensity of his newest purchase, already connected to his Scroll.

It is only by one notch, then two; he faintly wonders whether placing his ear against that coarse trail of hair running down from Qrow’s navel would allow him to hear the buzzing, growing more and more violent, more and more intense, with every single turn of the dial.

He brings it up again, curious how far he can push it; that is enough, however, for Qrow’s eyes bug out, his breath halting as he freezes, the pen dropping from his fingertips. Ink spills upon the page.

Marrow glances over, all sweet, unknowing innocence. “Oh, that’s annoying,” he murmurs. “Here, I’ll print another form off.”

“Did you spill your coffee onto yours, Marrow?” Vine murmurs without looking up.

“N-no! Of course not,” Marrow pouts. His tail tucks between his legs guiltily as he speaks, however.

As the young man hurries to the printer at the back of the room, Clover turns off the device, allowing Qrow to curl up, the elder resting a sweat-soaked forehead upon the table. Vine does not notice. Marrow does not see; Clover raises a brow, noting with a distant smile that Marrow does indeed print off two forms, rather than just one.

Clover feels glorious, the unspoken secret hanging in the air, a shining beacon which only he can see hovering over Qrow’s head.

And, as he increases pressure and pulls it down again and again as the next two hours unfold, he is able to watch the precise moment Qrow can no longer hold on; the man’s face shifts from determined and frustrated to desperate, pleading- crimson eyes water, mouth falling agape behind trembling lips- fingers twitch and tremble as they punch in the final words upon the report, click ‘submit’, and send them off-

And Clover is on his feet, having already finished his own work thirty minutes before. “Qrow, you’re looking a little pale,” he says, making a show of checking the elder’s temperature. “Are you coming down with something again?”

Qrow flushes, averting his gaze. “Shut up, punk,” he mutters. He does not resist when Clover helps him to his feet, however.

He continues to pout and attempt to retain some control over the situation as Clover begins guiding him out of the room, casting a stern glance back at Vine and Marrow. “Make sure those are in on time, you two!”

Vine’s silent nod and Marrow’s cheerful agreement do nothing to quell Clover’s peaking excitement, nor does it do anything to reassure Qrow, whose face has long gone past begging to pure, undeniable brokenness, eyes glazed as he crumbles where he stands the moment the Ace Ops’ office door closes behind them.

Clover is there to catch him, scooping him up and taking him through fire escapes back to Qrow’s quarters. There, he removes the toy which the elder has been enduring this entire afternoon, revelling in the openness it leaves in its wake, leaving space for Clover to slide in, gelled heat warming instantly thanks to the burning fire raging within Qrow’s flesh.

And Qrow accepts him without a second thought, despite the waterfall of curses which flow from his lips in response to Clover’s game that afternoon, scathing if it were not for the fact that he can barely form coherent words thanks to the movement within him. Clover takes it all, merely stroking and thrusting and sucking, doing whatever he can to make those words falter upon Qrow’s lips, for words are not necessary right now- words are never needed until Qrow is nearly gone yet again, leaving Clover to lean close to a flushed, pink ear and whisper praise and affirmation until the heat swallowing him up grows so tight that Clover, too, is pushed over the brink.

After they are both sated, Clover cleans Qrow up without a second thought. Qrow is too exhausted to move, after all; Clover does not mind wiping the elder down, tossing soiled garments into the laundry, cleaning and storing the toy, and holding him until he is truly conscious again. Clover will gladly do it any day.


	38. Chapter 38

Fingers are incredible things, Clover thinks as he feels Qrow’s fingers move through his hair, running over his skin, raising gooseflesh and soothing him simultaneously. He leans into the touch each time, mesmerized by the way Qrow is always able to make him feel relaxed, languid- so different from the strict persona he maintains with the rest of the Ace Ops.

And yet, that is what keeps him grounded as he crumbles every single time; those tender fingertips, callused and coarse and yet still so gentle, almost painfully so, running over his skin as he closes his eyes and opens his mouth to let the elder hear pleasured grunts and breathy moans, both vocalizations so personal, yet perfect for Qrow; he knows that Qrow enjoys them, so he does not hide, does not run, does not pretend. He simply allows himself to let go, submitting fully, feeling the elder press those fingers over his body, brushing and stroking and flicking taut, ample muscle and flesh that has been lauded for its strength for so long that Clover has forgotten what it feels like to be weak- to _enjoy_ being weak.

Until Qrow, that is.

Perhaps that is why he is so frustrated, so wanton, when he is filled by something else. The beads are simple, gel and plastic slipping into him with ease, little pops echoing alongside his sharp inhalations and Qrow’s humming baritone as he spreads and squeezes, body shifting in wait and in want. He can see crimson burning with a heat, a fascination, as if the sight of navy blue- matching Clover’s uniform- disappearing inside pink, puckered flesh is the most riveting thing he has seen in his life, so he allows it, for the way those fingertips massage tender skin and quivering heat whilst Clover is filled, played with, brought to the brink and back, before emptied in the most aggressive way he has ever felt in his life, is worth it.

But more than anything, as those fingers slip into him in a fashion that has simultaneously become routine and still so gloriously novel and yearning and explorative every single time, Clover marvels at the very fact that Qrow is _touching him._ Those early days in Atlas had left the elder in such frigid, isolated disarray, his own fears leaving him too afraid to even reach out.

Qrow does not hesitate as he reaches out here, encompassing Clover’s body like no one else can with straight shoulders and a proud stance as he pushes, gentle and soft, those fingertips continuing their ministrations as he is filled, matching perfectly to the elder’s shape. Qrow has made him, molded him, to fit Qrow and Qrow alone.

And those fingers never stop, and Clover lets himself fall apart for the nth time.


	39. Chapter 39

This is no place to be doing this, and yet, as lips connect in the shadowy alleyway, bodies pressing against one another in a nook hidden away from security cameras and watchful eyes, Clover cannot help but focus his efforts all on the figure molding perfectly against him. It is almost as if there is no cloth between their skin, the heat emanating from their pores scalding as they press and tug and hold, the only source of Mantle’s chill the brick wall upon which Qrow’s back leans against. Clover’s hands scrabble upon icy clay and around a strong, narrow waist, drawing the body closer until he can slip his leg between firm thighs, until he can press his heat against the elder.

Qrow moans against his lips. “Shouldn’t we head back-“

“The storm’s going to take too long to blow over,” he replies, latching back onto a stubble-covered jawline before the elder can protest, lips trailing up pale skin, leaving it flushed in their wake. They wrap around an earlobe and suck, and he smiles, the motion eliciting a breathy gasp and strain down below.

To his surprise, it is Qrow who reaches down first, who cups him through uniform and stiff cloth; fingers massage and squeeze, driving him to bury his face in a gaunt collarbone, breathing heavily as his own hands reach to do the same until he feels Qrow’s face mimicking his, buried in his neck and begging silently for more.

They rut. They grind and buck their hips, demanding for more friction, pleasure- for more warmth amidst this icy storm which assails them all. The streets of Mantle are empty aside from them, leaving behind the pelting, rhythmic attack of ice and sleet upon rooftops and concrete as the soundtrack to their union, their building pressure, their fingers and lips intertwining-

And they both succumb, moans and breathless gasps and silent adoration shared in the connection between their lips.

The flush upon Qrow’s face, the sweat beading upon his brow, is precious, Clover thinks. He cups that cheek and smiles as the elder automatically nuzzles into his gloved touch, as he is wont to do. “We’re a bit of a mess now, huh,” he murmurs wryly, trying to catch his own breath as he returns back to awareness.

Qrow rolls his eyes. “Can’t take it back now, boy scout.”

“No,” Clover grins, resting his forehead against the elder’s, “but it’s not like I’d want to, anyways.”

The way Qrow’s face absolutely melts at those words will always be enough to ease any strain in Clover’s heart.

Yet, they still have time before the storm passes and their transports arrive. “We can’t exactly walk around like this,” he says, pulling away from Qrow.

Qrow shifts, blushing ferociously as he realizes just what a predicament they truly are in; Clover can only smile as he watches Qrow move awkwardly as he undoubtedly begins to regain some modicum of modesty, ears matching his eyes in embarrassment. “Sh-shut up,” he groans, a flash of panic in his eyes.

Clover rolls his eyes, but does not tease the elder further- he has no need for words, after all, when his actions speak his intentions clear as day. Qrow can only suck in a breath and lean back against icy brick and mortar as Clover drops to his knees, fingers flying to a leather belt. If Qrow is uncomfortable, all he needs to do is clean him up, right?

Fingers twine gently into his hair as he gets to work with his waiting mouth, and Clover knows he has made the right choice.


	40. Chapter 40

“Qrow, are you okay?”

The flushed cheeks are a dead giveaway, but Qrow still manages to put on a weak smile as he nods. “Yup. What were you saying?”

It is a good thing that the camera only captures the image of Qrow up from his shoulders, giving him some modicum of coverage; or perhaps it is a negative thing, for that invisibility allows Clover to continue his ministrations from below Qrow’s desk, lips slowly making their way up pulsing veins as Qrow attempts to debrief the general.

The guard station is far different from how they had left it from their first watch, but it has been weeks since then, after all. Many Huntsmen and Huntresses have come through, making little changes here and there with their setup to improve the overall layout of the midway checkpoint. The refurbished desk and work terminal is a lovely addition, Clover thinks; even with his bulkier frame, he is able to fit beneath it so easily, not even disturbing any power cords as he anchors himself between trembling legs, his hands wrapping around hips that flex and buck only when they cannot hold out any longer as he finally swallows down, consuming Qrow.

A drop of sweat rolls down Qrow’s temple, and he swipes it away as he continues listing out their supply needs for the following shift. There has been an increase in Grimm activity, he states; his voice quavers, breath hitching as teeth scour sensitive flesh, a tongue diving into an entrance which is still wholly unprepared.

Clover watches with fascination, not even bothering to lose himself in the motions when he is so focused on watching crimson eyes flutter and refocus over and over again as James continues in his usual manner.

However, even the elder seems to pick up Qrow’s strange behaviour eventually. “Is… something the matter, Qrow?” James asks near the end of the report, wholly baffled by Qrow’s keening sigh as he curls momentarily, looking down at Clover off-camera so desperately that Clover almost melts.

Qrow straightens up, plastering on the falsest smile. “Yeah, Jimmy, look- maybe invest in some better food for the poor sentries here. I’m not feeling that great,” he lies through clenched teeth, knees clamping around Clover’s head, fingers twining in Clover’s hair.

Clover relishes in it. He knows what is coming.

James chuckles, although the concern is evident in his voice when he says, “There should be medicine there, too. Let me know if you need anything, okay? If there is an issue with rations, I’ll look into our MRE supplier with the logistics manager.”

“Good. I-I’m gonna go if that’s all,” Qrow murmurs, eyes growing glazed as Clover dives in, his throat opening happily, fingers reaching up to curl around and cup heavy, weighty flesh which tightens at his touch.

“Sounds good. Take care, Qrow,” James says kindly. Then, the call is cut off, and the light from the monitor fades, leaving just Qrow and Clover in the room.

Clover barely has time to blink before the fingers in his hair strengthen their grip and _tug,_ dragging him down until all he can feel is heat in his throat, the ache of his jaw, curls tickling his nose and pain in his scalp as Qrow’s touch grows frenetic, desperate. He closes his eyes and allows the elder to move him as he pleases, sliding flesh in, out, in, out, building up to a rhythmic crescendo that grows more and more erratic with every breath. Without looking, he slides his hands up underneath a rumpled dress shirt until fingers are able to pinch and flick and brush pert flesh, his heart swelling as his precise touches elicit the final undoing, and Qrow gasps and grunts and bucks against Clover- spilling, crumbling.

He has gained more than enough practice by now to know exactly how to swallow, how to ensure that not a drop is spilled. He does so happily, feeling warmth fill his belly, the heady satisfaction from Qrow’s buzzing expression sending tingles down his spine as Qrow pushes the rolling chair back, pulling Clover out from underneath the desk. Silently, the elder drags Clover to straddle him, laying his head against Clover’s collarbone as he desperately catches his breath.

Clover simply sorts out Qrow’s hair, wiping away streaks of sweat rolling down his jaw. “You did well, keeping your cool there, you know,” he murmurs lovingly.

“I cannot fucking believe you.”

“He didn’t know,” is the nonchalant response. When Qrow sends him a scathing look through the exhausted bliss still lingering upon his face, all Clover can do is shrug and laugh. “I mean, it’s not like we did it in his office-“

“ _Clover!”_

“…unless you wanted to?”

The amount of scandalized horror in Qrow’s eyes makes him laugh, his chest rumbling with affection as he wraps his arms around Qrow’s neck. He kisses the elder, passing the taste of Qrow between them. Qrow accepts it all, lips separating with whitish strands hanging between them. Clover licks his lips, savouring the taste, the _heat_ in Qrow’s eyes as that white disappears, joining the rest of it. “C’mon. We’ve got to get ready for bed. Don’t want to wait too long to turn the heat generators on, after all.”

“We’re getting ready for _something,_ you lucky idiot.”

Clover smiles. It feels right to be back here. It’s still in the middle of nowhere, but it’s with Qrow, and that’s all that matters.


	41. Chapter 41

Qrow has always been nothing but perfect, his body long-having been molded to Clover’s shape so well that anything else feels foreign for the elder, whether he will openly admit it or not. Clover does not mind, for crimson eyes and pink blushes always tell the truth, anyways.

However, there is no way to ever be ready for an entire hand.

His face is buried in a pillow, leaving Clover to focus. One finger, two, three, four- and then, after painstaking efforts to keep the elder keening and begging and wanting for more heat, intensity, pleasure, _touch,_ Clover finally does it, pushing all five digits past slick, stretched pink, sliding in so slowly he wonders vaguely whether he is even moving at all.

His hand sits upon Qrow’s heat, running along his chest, to his mouth, to every inch of skin his fingertips can reach, reassuring him through his pants and muffled groans of discomfort and confusion and instinctive fear that Clover is here, Clover will keep him safe- that nothing bad shall ever happen to Qrow if Clover’s luck and his heart have anything to say about it.

Eventually, Clover is enveloped by the tightest heat he has ever felt upon his hands in his life, his wrist disappearing inside flushed skin between narrow hips. He shifts carefully, kissing and biting exposed skin until there is a gasp, a cry, an almost drunken sob.

“Is it good?” he breathes, grabbing hold of one of the hands gripping the pillow.

A mute nod and a wide-eyed, shocked, glazed over expression is what he receives. He shall take it.

He moves again, focused on the motion that caused that cry, intensifying his exploration of dense, soft, pliant flesh until all that remains is a tear-soaked, snot-stained pillow and a whimpering creature who cannot let go of Clover’s hands anchoring him to this earth.

He does not predict the release when it does arrive. Frankly, neither of them do- with one more push, gently moving as far as he can without breaching past their limits, Qrow’s entire torso collapses, his body crumbling face-first into the bed, leaving Clover to mercilessly move, the speed and intensity of his hand causing the elder to almost scream as he explodes, completely falling apart, the sheets irrevocably stained as he loses all control. Flesh squeezes around Clover’s arm so tightly that he can no longer move, simply an audience at this point to Qrow’s undoing.

When the elder is finally completely spent, his entire body turns limp, boneless. With just as much tender care as the entry, he removes himself from Qrow, wiping off his slick arm on a waiting towel before gathering the elder up in his arms, pulling him onto his lap.

A few moments later, Qrow whispers, “You…”

Clover shakes his head and presses a kiss to Qrow’s temple, wiping off the absolute mess which they have created upon the elder’s skin. “No. I’m going to take care of you.”

Qrow moves to protest, but is too weak- so, he gives up, settling for nestling against Clover’s chest and closing his eyes, allowing his trembling limbs and vulnerable heart to be cared for by the younger until they are ready for bed. Clover does not mind being left wanting. His heart has already been fulfilled this night.


	42. Chapter 42

No matter what Qrow had done to him in the past, _nothing_ is as humiliating as what he must do now.

Cool glass feels icy against his bare skin, raising gooseflesh and sending shivers across his body, all the way down and back up his spine, his most sensitive regions brushing against the see-through barrier between himself and the rest of Atlas Academy. The horizon is absolutely breathtaking in the distance, but the image is mildly sullied for him as he sees his own reflection staring back at him, emerald filled with tears and mouth twisted into a grimace, pulled into a lopsided grin by familiar fingers hooked into his mouth.

Qrow stands up behind him, a wicked smile visible in the reflection of the glass. “You owe me, Ebi,” he murmurs coyly.

“I didn’t think you meant _this,_ ” he whimpers back, cursing how weak he sounds. “What if he comes back?”

“He went down to Mantle barely twenty minutes ago. It’s going to take him a lot longer to finish up his visit to the doc.”

“But- but what if-“ and Clover gasps, his body shuddering as his tip brushes the glass as well, a million nerve endings screaming for more and for comfort simultaneously, “-what if someone sees?”

Clover is spread apart, entered, filled. For a long moment, the two sigh in synchrony, their bodies returning to their familiar shapes as they are reconnected, joined together, turned whole.

Then, he shudders, Qrow’s voice suddenly in his ear as the elder whispers, husky and deep and alluring and so damn _wanton,_ “Then let them see.”

And so, Qrow begins to move, pressing Clover’s body against the glass in James Ironwood’s office overlooking all of Atlas Academy.

Clover’s reflection is an absolute travesty- sweat-streaked hair flops into his eyes as the elder forces his body against the window, holding him there as hips begin to build up a rhythm, lips biting the nape of his neck, his shoulder, his earlobe as he is bucked against the glass, his own heat freezing and stiffening with every brush against icy glass. Soon, streaks of liquid are smeared across the clean plane alongside his sweat and fingerprints, his shame mixing with his want as Qrow takes him, leaving him heady and blinded. All he can focus upon is the movement, the heat, the friction, the feeling of Qrow holding him in place, trapping him between his arms, exposing his submission to the world-

He has never felt more aroused in his life.

In his ear, Qrow murmurs, “Look at that. You can see the docks from here.” Clover can hear the grin in his voice as he adds, “Your job is to play lookout, boy scout. You’re good at that, right?”

And as Qrow shifts and finds the one spot that can make Clover crumble, all the younger can do is nod and whimper and grunt and moan, being bounced mercilessly against the glass. He wipes away the automatic tears and looks down below, watching tiny figures upon the airship docks. If any one of them look up, what will they find?

_The strong, commanding head of the Ace Operatives being taken against the Headmaster and General’s window._

_Brothers,_ Clover wants to disappear.

And yet, he does not pull away, for he can practically taste Qrow’s desire upon his tongue, can feel the intensity of his motion and his own flesh moving within him, can feel the pressure building up in the electricity which crackles through the air as motions grow faster, faster, faster- a hand closes against Clover’s Adam’s apple, another one holding vice-like onto his hip as he is pressed flush against the glass, his chest flattening against it. Then, white-hot heat releases as Qrow comes undone, pouring within Clover as well as the view of the horizon is stained and the tranquility of the office is interrupted forever.

He does not remember how they leave the office that day- the cleanup, the dressing, the route back to their quarters is but a mystery. Qrow promises he did not leave white streaks upon James’ window. When the general never reprimands him, he assumes Qrow has spoken the truth- and yet, his heart will never be truly comfortable with entering that office again, he just knows it.

After all, in hindsight, he quite enjoyed watching Qrow fall apart in the reflection, crimson eyes and moaning lips mingling with the colours of the sky. It was beautiful. That is the one concrete thing which Clover can truly recall from that little adventure- that, and the fact that Qrow sleeps that night, more contented than ever.

One day, he shall ask what James has done in the past to earn Qrow’s ire. For now, however, he is content to simply sleep in the elder’s arms.


	43. Chapter 43

All of the precautions have been taken. He has done extensive research. He feels confident in this. And yet, the fear in Qrow’s eyes makes him want to toss this idea away, to pretend he was not the one who has willed it into existence thanks to his simple little gesture, his simple little game.

However, Qrow is not one to be cowed. He leans back against the headboard of Clover’s bed, legs splayed, fear slowly replaced by desire and curiosity and determination as he allows himself to drown in Clover’s touch, the preparations slow and gentle and careful. “Hurry up,” he croaks, not daring to open his eyes as Clover works methodically. “This is taking so long.”

Clover quiets him with a kiss. There will be no hurrying on this day, no speeding up. He refuses to hurt Qrow.

So, only when he feels that Qrow has adequately been prepared, his flesh half-formed in Clover’s careful hands, Clover finally pulls out the sterilized rod- thin titanium, light glistening off of the smooth, already-slicked surface. Qrow keeps his eyes closed, and Clover does not blame him, for this request of Clover’s is something he has never done before, and he is not emotionally ready for it.

“We can stop here,” Clover murmurs as he holds the rod above tender, awaiting flesh. “I’m more than happy to stop. Please tell me, Qrow. Say it.”

It takes a moment for the elder to gain his bearings, but eventually, he nods, croaking out, “…put it in.”

So, Clover focuses on sliding metal through a thin opening, tenderly allowing gravity to do the work as it pushes further than anything has ever gone before. The hands gripping his shoulders as he works squeeze, relax, squeeze again, desperately clinging for something to hold onto while Clover does what no one has ever done to Qrow.

That knowledge fills him with heady, giddy glee. He knows he shouldn’t be this happy. And yet, the sight of silver disappearing within swollen, stiff flesh, crimson squinting and pale lips gasping and twisting _all for Clover_ is something which shall linger in his heart forever.

Eventually, the base of the instrument has been reached. Qrow is full. Clover cradles him, allowing the elder to scrabble blunt nails onto his skin as he tries to adjust to the sensation. “Does it hurt?”

“N-no,” Qrow replies, trying to regain his grasp on normalcy- but his mind is clearly too focused on the sensations of metal holding him stiff, locking him in place.

Clover shifts slightly, allowing his gel-covered hands to run across Qrow’s body before he sinks low, laying his head upon a pale, toned thigh as his fingers get to work. Fingers twine into his hair and pull as he begins to stroke, pull, twist, squeeze- all with such tenderness and care, so much _damn care,_ so as to not injure the elder. This could be a dangerous game, but he has dreamt of it, hungered for it for so long, and here he finally is, living it out in the flesh with the elder.

Crimson eyes watch him, half-lidded yet wary.

“Does it feel good?” he whispers, breath trickling sensitive skin.

Qrow shudders, heat pulsing in Clover’s hand. “Y-yes.”

“Okay.”

And, without further ceremony, he places his lips around protruding metal and begins to hum.

The wordless cry which tears out of Qrow’s mouth is breathtaking, and it continues to be absolutely awe-inspiring for the rest of the evening as Clover worships Qrow from head to toe, always returning to hum and pull and push and play with titanium and waiting flesh, reducing the elder to a quivering, trembling heap as he finally, truly succumbs.

He doubts Qrow is even conscious when he removes the instrument at last, carrying the man to the washroom. He seems almost drunken as Clover coaxes him through aftercare, even as he releases for a second time while barely conscious, only truly waking up once Clover has brought them both back to the bed, readying fresh blankets and pillows to cover them till morning.

Clover only notices his movement when he feels hands upon his belt. “I’m not letting you go unfinished this time,” Qrow murmurs, a pleading glint in his eyes.

Clover smiles fondly, cupping the elder’s cheek before complying, unzipping his slacks. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst in case u missed it they were sounding 0.o


	44. Chapter 44

He realizes distantly that he needs to buy a new silk tie for his dress uniform as heat spills forth, splashing his cheeks, landing upon his begging tongue for the nth time. He has lost count- he no longer remembers how many times he has been taken over the course of this day. All he knows is that he has not moved from this position in hours, his knees stiff and sore, begging for him to shift his weight off of them. He does not want to, does not _dare_ to, however.

After all, Qrow has not yet given permission.

So, he waits, blind and bound since first light, feeling liquid cooling sticky and thick upon his thighs, his chest, in his hair, and now, across his face. Every drop that was in him has dripped away, leaving him painfully empty, lonely- just waiting for more.

A part of him marvels and Qrow’s stamina. They have not been intimate in a week, and it has led to this. Perhaps they shall need to take more breaks, if it shall land him this kind of submission in the future.

As warm flesh lands upon his tongue, however, those thoughts fade away, his own pleasure and need intensifying as he is given the task of cleaning- of sucking away every drop, of ensuring the elder is immaculate before he goes off to wherever his business takes him. He assumes Qrow will go to fetch them dinner, for Clover has not eaten much other than Qrow that day. Perhaps it will be something else.

Clover shall wait here, no matter what. The ache in his bones and the sting around his wrists and the exhaustion in his back and jaw and hips will be nothing when Qrow is done with this game, for he knows that he shall be loved and worshiped and taken care of like no one else has ever bothered to do.

It is a little terrifying to realize how much he adores the aftermath of these games. No one has ever been like this with Clover. He has always been happy to give- but in his eagerness, he has never received, at least not like this.

It is all he has ever wanted, in truth.

His heart trembles, even as his body still focuses on swallowing, his tongue honed in on washing away evidence of their activities. And when that silk tie is finally removed from his eyes, gentle hands wipe away the dried tears and tell him that he is beautiful, and it is a kind of tenderness which Clover has never known before. It is perfect.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept. 13, 2020: And here's the end. This is the very first explicit fic I've ever written, and oh boy, what a weird, bizarre ride (ugh) it's been. I hope you've enjoyed it!

“Oh- okay, really, Uncle Qrow? Really, Clover? _Here_?”

He has never felt Qrow pull away from him so quickly, his eyes snapping open, flushing cheeks turning a deep, mottled red as he catches sight of Ruby watching him deadpan from the door of the otherwise-empty briefing room. The elder freezes, fear and concern filling his gaze, crimson wide and terrified as he awaits Ruby’s reaction.

Clover gulps. They have said nothing to the children, so how must the young woman feel, seeing her uncle embracing another man- one of their allies?

But of course, as only Ruby can, the young woman simply rolls her eyes and strolls into the room, making a beeline for the back table where the breakfast spread remains after the morning briefing. “I’m glad it’s me who caught you,” she mentions as she selects a croissant, completely unfazed. “If it were Yang, you two would never live it down.”

Clover clears his throat, taking a step forward. “I probably should’ve said something sooner,” he murmurs sheepishly, watching Ruby continue to pile a small plate with banana bread and croissants and fruit. “We’ve been… we’ve been together for quite a while now.”

Looking over her shoulder, Ruby pauses for a moment, her eyes jumping between Clover and Qrow quickly. Then, she turns to Qrow. “Uncle Qrow?”

“Y-yeah, kiddo?” Qrow replies, flustered, barely able to look her in the eye.

“Is Clover good to you? Does he treat you well?”

Clover does not even realize just how he holds his breath, awaiting the response nervously, until he hears Qrow murmur, “…yeah, Ruby. Turns out they sometimes make good guys in Atlas.”

At that, Ruby’s face melts into relieved glee. “Good.” Turning to sternly point a finger at Clover, however, she adds menacingly, “If I ever hear that you’ve hurt him, Mr. Clover Ebi-“

“You have permission to hunt me down, Miss Huntress,” Clover concedes, holding up his hands in peace. Then, in a bold, sudden move, he reaches out and grabs Qrow’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Although I don’t plan on letting that happen.”

He means it. He has meant it since they first allowed themselves to lower their walls in that checkpoint station, their bodies intertwining perfectly. He has always meant it, and he cannot foresee a day when he shall no longer believe in those words, for Qrow’s hand fits perfectly within his, their calluses and wrinkles lining up- two old, weary halves of a whole that manage to generate so much warmth and simple joy that he still cannot believe the power of his luck in finding this man.

Ruby beams, nodding happily. “I’ll hold you to it.” Before the girl leaves with her plate of food, however, “But also, maybe _don’t_ make out here? We work here.” She pauses, eyes widening in horror, voice raising in disgust as she squeaks, “Oh gross, have you two done _stuff in here-_ “

“You have a _mission to get to,_ ” Qrow hisses, pointing at the door vehemently.

Ruby shudders and jogs away, murmuring, “Ew, ew, _gross,_ ” over and over under her breath as she flees.

“She’ll misunderstand if you don’t clear it up,” Clover chuckles, pulling the elder in closer once her footfalls fade away.

Qrow rolls his eyes, his cheeks and ears matching his eyes perfectly. “She doesn’t need to know anything, and we’re not telling her, you hear me?”

“…so _no_ mention of James’-“

“Clover, I _swear-_ “

“It was your idea!”

“Oh, as if _you’re_ any better-“

But Clover simply laughs and reaches out his hand, cupping the elder’s cheek gently; he runs his fingers through dark, silver-streaked hair, pushing it out of crimson eyes before returning to caress stubble and wrinkles and laugh lines which he has grown to adore over the past months.

And, as always, Qrow nuzzles against his palm- this time, however, he grabs onto Clover’s hand, holding it there as he steps closer, their breath intermingling which just a scant few inches between them as Qrow relishes in the heat the younger gives.

Clover presses a light kiss to the corner of Qrow’s growing smile. “You’re okay with Ruby having seen us?”

Qrow hums, closing his eyes contentedly. “It was about time, I guess.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods, finally looking back to Clover. There is strength in his stance, pride in his shoulders, as he looks at the younger head-on, eyes level- no longer hunched over. The image takes Clover’s breath away.

The following words, however, do even more.

“She would need to meet the guy I love at some point, right?” Those words are accompanied by a hand on his chest and a hand upon his own cheek, the touch completely voluntary- completely natural.

Clover does not cry. He simply closes his eyes and trembles when they kiss again because it is cold in Atlas, and he doesn’t have any sleeves, and his eyes are sensitive to the chill. That’s all, he insists, much to Qrow’s amusement.

In his heart, he does not feel embarrassed at his vulnerability, however. He knows the elder will keep him warm. Qrow has promised it, has verbalized what their mutual trust and affection and devotion has spelled out time and time again upon their skin. He has made it _real._

That touch is there to stay, and Qrow and Clover are lonely and cold no longer.

_**-fin-** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! 
> 
> Here are my [other FG works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392)
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! See you in my other fics, and let me know what you thought of this fic!


	46. Chapter 46

Hello everyone!

Because I'm a monster who does not understand the meaning of 'too many WIPs', I've created another story about Qrow's alcoholism and journey to recovery in volume 7. It's a different look at how it might occur; aka, it's a strange mix of this story and my fic [_**Corvus**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439404?view_full_work=true), although it will not be nearly as explicit as this fic was. 

If you're interested in seeing more crow!Qrow and developing FG throughout his journey to sobriety, check out:

[ **Break My Fall:** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822854)

Summary: 

_It takes Qrow five days to wake up with Clover Ebi in his bed. It takes far longer for him to realize that this new Huntsman in his life is an ally. It takes him even longer to realize that maybe Qrow deserves it._

_-aka Fair Game developing their relationship as Qrow learns to cope with withdrawal, heal from his trauma, and stop hating himself- OR the mix of Corvus and touch (scintillas) that no one asked for._

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
